The Samsons: Two Novels

Let Water Burn

My name is Samson. I have long hair, but there is nothing symbolic or biblical about it; most people my age just have it as a matter of inclination, and nobody really cares. My long hair is a form of self-expression, of a desire to conform, to be with them. It is a measure of my indifference to remarks, even to Father Jess’s, to which I had countered that Christ had long hair and if God had intended us not to have it, He would not have given the likes of me a shaggy mane. I could let it grow down to my shoulders so I could tie it in a knot and then shave most of it off, leaving just a lock, a pigtail, such as Chinese gentlemen did generations ago. And look at the Chinese now, at Chairman Mao, whom so many of us revere — but it would perhaps only set me off as a freak, and that is not what I want, for I desire to be anonymous, to be simply the me nobody knows, for this me, this José Samson, a figure of no-good plastic that should be burned or buried under tons of scum. But plastic seems to survive all sorts of punishment. Please, I have self-respect and I know my sterling potential and what I am worth (which isn’t much), but this is how I was, this is what I am, how Mother knows me, and cutting my hair would not erase my stigma, my shame, or dim the glaring blunders of my past.

My name is Samson, and I have always known I was different no matter how often Mother had repeated to me, shrieked at me, or told me in soothing and dulcet words that I have an honorable name. But José Samson, Pepe, Pepito, Joe Samson is simply, honestly, irrevocably, and perhaps resolutely a bastard. It is not difficult to bear this indelible yet invisible tattoo, but not an Igorot facial emblem or a deep, keloid surgical scar can erase — thank God (do I utter His name in vain?) — the origins that have not been wrought on my face, nor deformed my physical being. Yet this is me, unerring in the devastation of the inner self.

Sometimes, I wish I were never born.

Still, I like being here, transfixed on this plain, this vast limbo without rim called living. I like being here, feeling the wind and the sun upon my skin, the fullness of my stomach, and the electric surge of an orgasm — now that I know it.

The only times I was really depressed was when I filled out those awful forms which demanded that I name my father and I would put “deceased.” As far as I was concerned he died long ago because I never knew about him then, although Mother — and she is an honorable woman — loves him still, his memory. Auntie Bettina, too — she worships him though she never told me who he was no matter what wiles I used. The way they had quarreled, Mother always telling her to shut up for my sake. I knew Auntie Bettina had known him well, that something in the dark shriveled past went awry. No, as Auntie had hinted, it was not Mother’s fault, nor anyone else’s. It was in the stars, written with precision and clarity, infallible and inescapable, this, my damnation: to be in Cabugawan forever, a destiny that would hound me because a crime had been committed not by my mother and her sister but by my father. I need no proof of this, for I am here, wearied and rotting with self-pity and misshapen under a burden too heavy to bear.

Yet I am Sagittarius, and I am supposedly easygoing and frivolous. The planets cannot chain me to any spot for I am fated to strike out, but to where? Is Tondo any better? Here, where for a year I have lived and known this warren of tin shacks and fouled air as I knew Cabugawan, too? But I am no bastard here; no shadow hounds me, for I am Pepe the scholar, the loyal comrade who will rise to any challenge, scour faraway places, and if I choose to be a priest, I would certainly be archbishop, or if I veer the other way, I would be the czar of crime of the barrio, mightier than Roger will ever be. After all, I organized the Brotherhood here, extracted the mindless ferocity from the gang and gave it a purpose other than thievery and drinking bouts. With this Brotherhood, I showed them how they could extort gin money, contributions for the fiesta from flinty politicians in the name of charity, civic pride, and all those shibboleths that plastic nationalists swear by.

My career as a politician is assured if I so decide to become one, that is what Father Jess had said, shaking his ponderous head at the prospect. But I will never be a politician. Though interested in people, I detest being friendly to those I feel no vibes with, not because I am not hypocritical, which I easily can be, but because it takes so much effort, so much violence to one’s self to attempt friendliness where there is nothing but indifference or contempt. Sagittarius — I am friendly — this is my nature; I am open to anything. I have a mind like a sponge that absorbs oil, water, muck, and dirt, a cast-iron stomach; I eat anything. They also say I am an achiever, that I can do what I set my mind to; in the two years I have been in Manila, what wonders have I done to my mind, to my body, to me? Two years — how many light years is it to the nearest galaxy, and even if we got there, in the end, will the trip be worth it? How long did it take the pterodactyl to disappear from the swamp, for the diamond to be? A baby feeds on its mother’s womb for nine months and is strangled slowly after birth because it does not have milk or proteins. Does it make any difference if it dies in nine months or before the age of nine? I have long known that time is an enemy rather than a friend, a deceiver, because it lulls us into thinking it can solve everything and, therefore, nothing. So it has been two years here in Manila, and what can I show for those years? Calloused knuckles of a novice karatista, the muddled brain of an aspiring politician?

If I deprecate myself too much, then this is also my nature, for I really cannot understand myself sometimes. For instance, why was I glad to leave Cabugawan where I was born, where I knew people and where people had been good to me? I don’t know why I had been unkind to Auntie Bettina and to Mother most of all, for it had never been my intention to hurt them, but that was what I did when I left.

* * *

Home. But where is home to this free mind, to this heart that throbs and expands beyond its prison of flesh? I could very well forget this home, this blob of black upon the green side of the earth; here, where dreams are slaughtered, and having buried them, I could strike out to other reaches and lift myself away from this Cabugawan, this enclave to which I was doomed as were those before me — those stunted people from the North who first came to this village and are now but memories, their presence ever with us when we talk before our meager meals, when we unfold the buri mats and prepare for the night. They hover around us, their remembered images blurred by years — uncles and aunts and grandfathers and great-grandfathers, their names, their lineage, their ghosts drifting up the grass roof with the soot and smoke of the kerosene lamp, and out into the night. Who are they but names of old men who fought with bolos, whose blood washed this land and whose bones are now embedded in the soil, their hatreds forgotten and unresolved, their ambitions unresurrected by those they left behind, certainly not by me, least of all, who could fancy an armalite spraying the sky not in anger but in wonderment that I could ever possess a two-thousand-peso toy and, with it, perhaps rob some bank so that once and for all I would finally be away from this blob of black, this home.…

Cabugawan is a village not really far from town, so I cannot say I am a farm boy, for I did spend a lot of my time in town, in the marketplace and around the movie house. Follow the dirt road from the main street, head south, cross a wooden bridge, and you are in Cabugawan, a huddle of thatch-roofed houses, though a few are roofed with galvanized iron now, for some of our neighbors have pensions from the government and a few families have relatives on the West Coast. Mother told me once that all who lived here were tenant farmers, and the bright ones were those who left.

The village street is just wide enough for bull-carts and an occasional jeepney. During the rainy season it is churned into mud by carabaos plodding through. In some places, the village street is lined with madre de cacao^* bloom. On both sides are our homes, mostly walled with buri palm leaves, surrounded by fences of split bamboo that rot and fall apart. The yards are swept clean. Fruit trees — tamarind, papaya, pomelo, caimito^†—surround the houses.

I know all the houses and their interiors — the cheap wooden furniture, the low eating tables, the kitchens sooty with years, the calendar frames and covers of Bannawag pasted on the walls, a cracked mirror, yellowed photographs of weddings and funerals, and on one side, the crude wooden chests where starched clothes and trinkets are stored. The village road dips down an arbor of bamboo, green and cool in the sunlight, and beyond it, the open fields. I have wandered here, swam in the irrigation ditches, gathered snails, and helped in the rice harvest.

It is difficult to explain my restlessness. I have not been hungry, as some of our neighbors had been during the planting season when they ate only twice a day. Thank God, Mother had good customers who paid her for her sewing, and Auntie Bettina is a schoolteacher. I cannot take pride in being Ilocano; I am not industrious, frugal, or serious, but I do have this desire to rush into the unknown, and I did that through books passed down to me by Mother and Auntie Bettina. I have meandered into the recesses of the imagination, wondered how it was when they first came to Rosales — those ancestors who had named the villages after the towns they came from. But I am not eager to know about them or why they came, by what means and with what infernal motivations. Perhaps it is just as well that I was born in Pangasinan, where, somehow, the Ilocano mystique has been diluted and where there is little affinity with the Ilocos, no real ties with the venerable towns that our forefathers had left; perhaps it was best that I was thrown into this cauldron called Tondo, for here, though we were still Warays, Maykenis, and etceteras, the distinctions have been muted and we are what we are, and the great equalizer is the fact that we all live here, and we live here because we cannot live in Santa Cruz or Quezon City or Makati. Still, there was no denying it, the Iglesia ni Kristo had more followers than Father Jess’s Church.

As for home, I see Cabugawan as the end, a monotonous prison where people grow old yet remain the same. When the time finally came for me to leave, I could not face Mother. So what if I did steal at school, from Auntie, from her? I just could not help myself. The last time Mother whipped me was when I was in grade six; it was also the year I flunked again. She did not have change for the five pesos of Mrs. Sison, one of her regular customers, so when she got home, she gave me a peso to return to Mrs. Sison. I never had money; I did go to town, but not to the house of Mrs. Sison. I went straight to the panciteria and ordered a peso’s worth of noodles. I would not have been found out, but Mrs. Sison ordered another dress in a week’s time, and when Mother came home, I knew at once that she knew. How could I tell her I spent the money on noodles? I told her I lost it — not a likely excuse. She grabbed her measuring stick and lashed at me. The pain in my thigh was sharp, stinging; she was about to swing again when she paused, the bamboo stick in midair, then crumpled to the floor, gasping. I went to her, frightened. “Mother! Mother!” but if she heard, she did not turn to me; her hand clutched at her chest, and after a while she got up and sat on the stool. Her face was livid and her breathing came slowly. When she spoke again, her voice trembled, almost inaudible: “Pepe,” she said, “what have I done wrong? I have raised you as well as I could.”

But there was only one thing in my mind: she was ill and I had made it worse by making her angry. And since then, every time she was hard of breath, I would worry that it was my doing. I am a bastard born to do wrong and could not help myself.

When I finally left, it was without recriminations. Mother had always wanted me to go and had prepared for it for so many years. She had set her mind on my going to college, perhaps to compensate for never having finished her degree. She had to stop in her second year, the year I was born.

You will be somebody, she used to say. And even after I failed thrice in grade school, she did not lose faith.

I love Mother. I only resented her wanting me catapulted to the stars when what I really wanted was just to be on solid, sordid ground, reading what I liked, eating pancit^‡ and bread if I could have it every day — not vegetable stew with salted fish, rice fried without lard, and coffee brewed from corn. I wanted more, but how could I tell her this when she worked so hard and yet made so little?

Auntie Bettina had cooked some rice cakes for me to take to Antipolo Street. All through the week, Mother had told me how to behave, to be obedient to Uncle Bert and Auntie Betty, to help in their house and do my own washing and ironing.

Unknown to Mother, Auntie and I had an argument. It was May, a month after my graduation from high school. Four years of it took me six years; and before that, nine years of grade school instead of six, so I was older and more mature than my classmates. It is not that I was dumb, as my Auntie used to say. Through it all, Mother had veiled her disappointment each time my grades were very low; her reproachful silence was enough. Auntie Bettina was right, of course. I did not try hard enough even to just pass. Arithmetic, for instance, bored me, and I was absent so many times my teachers had no alternative but to flunk me. In one particular year, Mother got to know of these absences and she followed me one afternoon to the creek where I had gone to swim. She caught me there and lashed at me with a strip of bamboo so hard, the welts were on my legs for several days. This and other forms of punishment did not deter me. In high school, it was geometry, physics, algebra, or Pilipino — that senile euphemism for Tagalog — in which I could orate but whose grammar I could never learn although there was nothing grammatically wrong with the way I spoke. I have, since then, come to believe that the real enemies of the development of the national language were the grammarians, and the sooner they were banished the better for Tagalog.

But while I loathed science and math, I loved literature and was happiest when absorbed in a novel. I saw an ever-widening world ennobled by the possibilities of eternity. I was visiting lands I would never actually see, also the bleakest and grimmest of lives, the convolutions of the libido and the subconscious. I trembled with the angst of the psychological storytellers and was chilled to the bone with spy and detective fiction. Indeed, I grew up rich with books, and they made our house different from all the houses in Cabugawan or all of Rosales even.

This interest in books was shared by Mother and my auntie. The library, one big glass-encased cabinet, was essentially their making. Though the selection was predominantly fiction and the classics, there were also cheap paperbacks on the origins of man, history, and Asian philosophy. Ortega y Gasset and Marx were side by side with Confucius and Shakespeare, whom I did not like though I had read all of him. Most of the books were secondhand or hand-me-downs from Uncle Tony when he was in the United States. I scaled the Himalayas, dined at Maxim’s, savored the new wines of Australia, safari’d in Africa; indeed, I had thrilled to the excursions of James Morris, V. S. Pritchett, Santha Rama Rau, and others. I also followed the latest shows on Broadway, the winners in international film festivals, delved deep into the human spirit with Hesse and Boll, and agreed completely with Negritude and the struggle for an African identity.

A few times each year, Auntie Bettina went to Manila, and she always returned with tattered paperbacks and copies of Esquire, Look, The New Yorker, Encounter, and Harper’s or Atlantic Monthly, for she always forayed into the secondhand magazine and bookstands in Recto and Avenida. I kept them all in reading condition by taping or pasting them when they started falling apart.

But the life of books was plastic; it mesmerized me with the triumph of virtue, the goodness of man, the plenitude of rewards awaiting the kind and the honest when they ascend heaven, nirvana, or some such Shangri-la. Yet all around us, even in this village, it was the rapacious landlord and the omnipotent politician who amassed rewards, not in some unreachable netherland but here, where I, too, could see how far, far away from this planet was the world of the imagination where I had thrived.

This wretched geography to which I was shackled was made livable only in the mind, and to it I went all the time, so it was a full six years of high school instead of four — or three — if I tried. And I would not have passed in my senior year if Auntie Bettina had not talked with my teacher so he would not press charges against me.

I was a thief.

It started way back in grade school. I used to envy my classmates who, during recess, would go to the stores in front of the school and buy rice cakes, ice cream, or halo-halo^§ while all I would have at times would be a cold ear of corn or boiled sweet potatoes, which Mother had me bring. During recess I’d steal back into the classroom and ransack the bags of my classmates and sometimes pilfer a few coins. Through all those years I was never caught — till I was a high school senior. My teacher left his Parker pen on his table, and as we were filing out I simply swiped it; he had asked us the following day if any of us had seen it. I did not want the pen for myself. I wanted to go to Dagupan early in the morning, have a good meal, a movie, and come back in the evening, and I made the mistake of peddling it in the bus station to someone who knew my teacher.

There was a confrontation in the house, Mother crying at the dishonor I had brought her; Auntie Bettina asking why I did it. What could I tell them?

My teacher was kind; he said he would not press charges after Auntie Bettina had talked with him, that he would pass me, too, in spite of my low grades, and he even had a few kind words — yes, I was poor in many subjects, but was tops in literature and composition, and that if only I listened, was not absent most of the time, and studied … studied … But what was there to study? At twenty-two I felt I knew enough of the world, that Cabugawan was its asshole, the repository of all its grief and agony, that I must flee it, even if only for a day in Dagupan.

Dust was thick on the street. It had already rained but not enough to bring a touch of green to the dying grass. Though it was only mid-morning, with the heat it seemed as if it was already high noon. I had stripped to my shorts, but it did not help. I wanted ice cream or halo-halo or just iced water, but we did not have a refrigerator. Auntie was cleaning in the kitchen; Mother had gone to town to deliver a dress. She supported me with her sewing; the sounds that I grew up with were the snip of scissors and the whirring of the infernal sewing machine late into the night.

I had read everything in the house, even Auntie’s technical teaching books, and I could not go to the library anymore, nor face any of my teachers. I had even read the scrapbook on Tio Tony that Mother kept under lock as if it were some heirloom. I had wondered why, so I asked her once and it was then that her voice trembled and she showed it to me — articles mostly, on nationalism, on the uses of the past — and I sometimes thought about what Tio Tony had written and concluded it was a waste of time. Although he had long been dead, his memory lingered tenaciously. Of all the Samsons, he had traveled farthest and reached the very top; I sometimes wished I were like him, if only for his travels, and when I told Mother this, she smiled wistfully as if I had made her happy.

It was Don Quixote that really fascinated me. I read it when I was in grade school. We were having difficult times; Mother was working very hard to help send Auntie Bettina to college. We could not afford electricity although the line had already reached our village and many of our neighbors had it. I was so fascinated by that crazy old man; the kerosene lamp I fashioned out of an old pop bottle was often empty so I used to walk to the far corner and there, under the streetlamp, with all the moths and mosquitoes about me, I would follow Don Quixote’s meanderings.

I would often wander to Calanutan, too, follow the railroad tracks, wondering how long it would take if I followed them and walked to Manila, although the trains no longer came to Rosales.

In the mornings, pretending that I was going to school, I went to Carmen and watched the buses as they sped on to Manila. And when I was tired of walking, I would lie in the shade of trees and watch the clouds turn into boats and planes, palaces and faraway snow-capped mountains — all the compass points that I would someday explore.

It was all those books, their sweet poison, their untruths that beguiled me. But I could not go far. Although I was already twenty-two and earned a little polishing shoes and selling newspapers on holidays or gathering firewood and delivering it to regular customers in town, what I earned went to noodles and excursions to Dagupan.

On this particular morning I was just listless and saying again and again, “Life of a shrimp, life of a shrimp …”

Tia Bettina came into the living room, her printed dress quite wet as she had been washing the earthen pots. A few years back she had looked lovely, just like in her photographs, but she had become a teacher and had been assigned to a barrio in the next town. Though there were some suitors, she never paid them any attention, and now she was past forty, an old maid — but without the sour rancour of spinsters.

“What are you saying, Pepe?” she asked. “Why are you like this?”

“Why? Why? Because of this place! Everyone!”

“What wrong have I done?” she said, smiling, trying to humor me.

“You are contented,” I said. “You are a teacher, you are Miss Samson, and you are happy.”

“And you are young, talented. The world is before you. And next month you will go to college. You should be happy,” she said.

She, too, had worked hard and saved to send me to college — no, not in Dagupan, in Manila. In another month I would leave to be the lawyer, doctor, or whatever they fancied me to be. I can understand Mother saving for my education, but Auntie Bettina need not have saved for me even out of gratitude to Mother. It seemed as if there was no meaning to all they did. I never wanted to be a lawyer or a doctor; what I really wanted was to go see a movie, devour a good meal, or tarry in Dagupan just looking at the shops, the new shoes and clothes and denims for men, and go to the dance hall, drink a little beer and hold the girls, then dinner, not the vegetable stew we had at home, but plenty of pork or fried chicken.

“Why do I have to go to college?” I asked.

“Because that is how it will be,” Auntie Bettina said, still trying to humor me.

But I was not to be humored. “Why do you and Mother work so hard for me?” I asked pointedly. “I did not ask you to. I could be an ingrate. I am already a thief. You cannot be proud of me.”

Auntie looked at me, more hurt than angry, then she spoke, making each word sink like stones in a quagmire, without trace or ripple in the dark, opaque surface of my thoughts: “You don’t know many things because you are young. You don’t know how she worked so that you can leave this place and not suffer.”

“I don’t want you to be disappointed,” I said. “All I want is to be happy, to be …” I groped for words. I had never given thought to what I really wanted to be. But now, in this illuminating instant, it was laid lucidly before me, gleaming like a polished morning — the dream, the purpose. “I want to be happy so I must go away. I have known nothing here but sadness. I want to be myself,” I said clearly. “I don’t want to be told what I will never be. I don’t want to have a single worry, and I don’t care about this place. I want to leave and not come back.”

She stared at me as if I were some stranger, and her voice was strained. “I don’t want to hear this. Where will you go; how can you go? You have just finished high school; you don’t know anything, you are not trained for anything.”

“I have hands,” I said defiantly, knowing I was only hurting her more. “I can sweep floors, shine shoes. And if the worst comes, I can steal.”

Those thoughts, submerged for years, were being freed from their moorings.

Her countenance softened as she slumped on the chair before the sewing machine. Tears misted her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, but she made no effort to wipe them.

“Pepe,” she said, “it is all wasted then, the years your mama worked for you. No, I will not talk about myself. And for what? Please think about it again. You can finish college if you only tried, if you stopped playing. There is no future here. You can see that in us. Only through education … if only you knew your father.…” She stopped, shocked at her own revelation, and wiped her tears quickly. But I did not prod her into telling me who my father was, for by then I no longer cared.

* Madre de cacao: A shrub planted as fencing, with lovely cherrylike flowers during the dry season.

† Caimito: Star apple.

‡ Pancit: Noodles.

§ Halo-halo: Literally “to mix,” usually sweets in crushed ice.

Destroy the Bridges

Five hundred pesos, that was what Auntie Bettina and Mother gave me — my tuition for the semester. I would still have enough left for the extras. Within the month, Auntie would come to Manila to follow up her promotion at the Department of Education and she would bring me more.

Mother embraced me before we went down the steps; then she started to cry. We walked to the bus station in the early morning, my stomach filled with fried rice, coffee, and salted fish; all my clothes — three knit shirts, three denim pants, and some underwear — in a shapeless canvas bag that belonged to Auntie Bettina.

As we crossed the creek, I looked down the wooden bridge at the sandy riverbed; it would be a long time before I would return here to swim. Some of our neighbors were up early, sweeping their yards. They asked where we were going and Mother said proudly that I was going to college, in Manila.

Before I boarded the bus, she reminded me, “My son, whatever course you take, do not forget Cabugawan. You can only leave it if you study hard.”

Her printed dress was frayed at the hem and her slippers were soiled. Looking at her careworn face, her hands hardened with work, my chest tightened. I pressed her hand to my lips. I wanted to ask her for forgiveness I did not deserve, to embrace her again, but I was twenty-two and on this morning I was on the threshold of a new life and should not be sentimental. “Mother,” I said, “thank you.”

The bus crunched out of the dirt driveway. I looked back as we neared the highway. She still stood there, watching.

Auntie Bettina had taken me to Manila when I was thirteen — a two-day visit, all of which was now a haze. The land we passed was parched with sun, all through Central Luzon, and the towns were stirring with unrest. It was the dry season’s beginning, and before the heat came and seared everything, the last lingering coolness of March brought with it, as if in some stubborn but futile protest, the burning red cascade of flowers from the fire trees.

The grass, ready to die, had started to brown. The smell of rot, of decay, the familiar odors of garlic and dried fish permeated the small restaurants in the towns. The heat had baked the mud, which the pounding of feet and the slashing of tires had ground into dust that now hovered over everything like morning mist; it was the dull glaze on rooftops, a pattern on the roadsides, the patina over trees. And with the dust came the heat that went deeper, through the skin and into the bowels, and festered there, to be released not at dusk, when the heat diminished, but with the magic of cuatro cantos^* or San Miguel, and when released turned to violence. Be wary of Filipinos who are drunk — I read once that our amiable ways are a veneer that, when peeled away, uncover the real frustrations, the dormant angers; in vino veritas.

I was both thirsty and famished when the bus rolled into its terminal at noon, noisy and awash with weary travelers from all over the north. The air around us was soggy with fumes and sweat. I had a quick lunch of siopao and noodles in the squalid restaurant within the terminal. Though I heard about how provincianos like myself were preyed upon by porters and taxi drivers, I was not apprehensive. As for pickpockets, I had my money, as instructed by Mother, pinned inside my shirt, and I would have to strip to take it out. I had only twenty pesos in my plastic wallet, no watch, no ring. It would be a foolish pickpocket who would consider me good picking.

Auntie Bettina’s instructions were clear. I boarded a bus for Quiapo; through the steaming, clogged streets, I kept wondering how I would be welcomed in Antipolo Street, how relatives to whom I had never been close would take in a vagabond.

Manila — here I am at last, eager to wallow in your corrupt embrace and drink from your polluted veins. Manila, Queen City, Pearl of the Orient, Jaded Harlot, and cheap, plastic bauble — luminous with the good life, I am here to feast on your graces, admire your splendor, your longevity. Be kind as a whore is kind to a virgin man. Lead me through your dispirited streets, your dank and festering neighborhoods into the core of your warm, affectionate heart.

All of the city was warm and Quiapo was the cauldron, bubbling with people, the spillover from all over the country, spewed into Plaza Miranda like sewage from the innards beneath it. They are all here, the evacuees from the folds and recesses of the villages and the small towns, all drawn to Manila as flys are drawn to carrion.

I walked around Quiapo, crossed the burning asphalt, took in the acid breath of the city, and sought the shelter of the sidewalks filled with the swell of people, soot and grayness above me, the peeling, garish signs of stores, the pungent smell of cheap restaurants — the troughs where we would feed.

The length of Rizal Avenue was quite a walk. Although it was warm, my shirt was barely wet with sweat when I reached the Antipolo crossing. As Auntie Bettina said, the railroad tracks were the best guide, so I followed them.

The whole neighborhood smelled of urine, or refuse that had accumulated too long. On both sides were squatter homes, and the canals that lined the tracks were strangled with weeds, black with washings and the garbage of years.

The second railroad crossing — Isagani, then the house where Uncle Bert and Auntie Betty lived, a three-door apartment, reached through the street that narrowed into an alley flanked with weeds. The apartment had not been painted in years, the wooden sidings had started to fall apart and were reset by galvanized iron sheets. The fronts were festooned with hedges of gumamela. I remembered the apartment — it was in the middle and it bore Uncle Bert’s brass sign: ATTORNEY-AT-LAW AND NOTARY PUBLIC. I knocked on the door.

No answer. It was Sunday and my relatives should be in. I rapped again, this time louder. Almost imperceptibly, the window at the right opened a little, and someone — a woman with a sharp, shrill voice — called out: “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Tia?”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“I am Pepe, Emy’s son, from Cabugawan.”

“What Emy?”

I was puzzled. “She wrote to you and also told you a year ago that I would be coming.”

“What Emy?”

“Your cousin, the sister of Bettina.”

The window opened wider. I had not seen her in years and my memory held on to a woman past fifty with quiet but pinched features. The eyes, suspicious at first, finally glowed and she opened the door. “Yes, yes — Pepe, come in, hijo. Come in.” And to someone upstairs, she called aloud: “Bert, your nephew is here.

“I had to be sure,” she said, her voice had grown very warm. “I was in the kitchen cooking … we eat very late, you know, and besides, I cannot open the door at once. So many holdups, even here. What can they get from people like us? Me, a poor schoolteacher?”

“Mother wrote to you, Auntie,” I said. “Last week …”

“Last week!” she laughed. “It will be another month before we get it.”

My uncle waddled down in his long cotton shorts, fat and dark and balding, and he shook my hand firmly. He drew back and appraised me. “I hope you will like it here.”

It was cramped, almost airless within. The red-tile floor had cracked in places, but it was polished to a sheen and the whole place smelled of wax and careful attention. The chairs were old narra and woven rattan, and at one end of the living room was a black-and-white television set with a crocheted cover. The center table was topped with glass and several weekly women’s magazines. Potted begonias sat on pedestals in solemn corners and beyond the living room furniture, by the turn of the stairs, was the dining table. Their maid came in from the kitchen and looked me over briefly, then returned to her work, setting the noonday meal. She was dark, about my age, and pretty in a provinciana manner.

In a while we sat down to a lunch of fried milkfish and vegetable stew. My auntie and uncle lived by themselves; their sons had married and one had migrated to San Francisco.

Uncle Bert was talkative. “We have been expecting you to come and go to college here,” he was saying between chunks of fried bangus^† and mouthfuls of rice. “And of course, the room upstairs has been vacant since the boys left. You should try to find work in the daytime and study at night like I did. So it took me eight years to finish law, but I finished it. So it is true that you can get lawyers for two pesos now, but it is always an honor to be called Attorney, to have passed the bar. You know, first time I tried, I made it! More than two thousand of us and only seven hundred passed. Ha! Seven hundred! There is always room for a good lawyer and maybe you should also take up law.”

Tia Betty looked up from her cracked plastic plate. Her tired face was lined and her hair already had streaks of gray. “Do not impose your will on him,” she said. “I am sure he has plans.” Then to me, “Pepe, what course will it be?”

“Maybe I will just try liberal arts,” I said meekly. “I don’t know what I am good at — my mind still wavers. And besides, I don’t really like going to school.” I paused, knowing I should not have said that, but it was out, and they looked at me as if I were a freak, or worse, a heretic.

“I’m surprised,” Uncle Bert said. “Your father …”

“My father?”

“Tony would have urged you, and Emy— I know she did. Did you know how hard your father studied so that he could go to the United States and be a success? There is nothing that hard work cannot accomplish, no matter how poor, no matter what your origins.”

“My father?” I asked again.

They realized then that Mother had never told me, nor Auntie Bettina. Aunt Betty looked at her husband, then at me, and since it could not be hidden anymore, she said slowly: “Well, you are no longer a child and if Emy never told you — or Bettina — then we may just as well do it. There is nothing wrong in your knowing it! I am sad that it has to come from us, but Tony was my brother. I loved him dearly and I should love you, too. And I do— That is, you are very welcome here, Pepe. You are our nephew … and we have no one in the house now.”

“Yes, yes. Very welcome. Very welcome,” Tio Bert repeated.

Tia continued. “It was so long ago, more than fifteen years, and I have forgotten that you are not supposed to know. I think Emy was ashamed, not because you were born …” she paused and did not quite know how to put it, “out of wedlock … but because she and Tony, first cousins, that is not supposed to be good.”

“No, not now. Not now. It is done now,” my uncle said.

“She is a very brave woman, your mother. You don’t know how courageous she was,” Auntie went on.

“Tell me about my father, Auntie,” I said. I could not eat anymore, though the hike from Quiapo had made me hungry. “Why did Mother hide it from me? It was so … so unnecessary.”

“Maybe she felt it was not time for you to know. That you were too young to understand.”

“I am twenty-two,” I said. “I am going to college.” Tears were starting to scald my eyes, and my chest was heavy.

“I don’t know everything,” my aunt said, turning away. “Your father got married to a very rich woman. I heard she died afterward, insane — that is what I learned. Before your father died … on that very same early morning he told me about you. Just before he died.” She stopped, looked at her plate, and toyed with her food.

“Your auntie visited Rosales afterward — after the funeral,” Uncle said. “And your mother,” he tried to smile, “where did she get the idea? Your father committing suicide? It was not an accident? But it was an accident! Betty?” he turned to her for confirmation, but Tia Betty did not speak.

“He was troubled, he was always thinking, forgetting things, forgetting where he was!” Uncle Bert insisted. “But the important thing … the important thing is that your father became successful. And we know you are talented — just like he was.”

“No, Tio,” I said. “My report card says I am not. I always failed.”

“But what is a report card?” Tio could not be dissuaded.

“I am not interested in school,” I said lamely. “I don’t know what I want. But I know I do not want to stay in Cabugawan.”

My auntie looked at me with pity. “You have to find a job and you cannot find a good one unless you are prepared, trained. This is so simple, I should not have to tell you.”

“I will work,” I said. “But I will not sweat trying to be somebody.”

“Surely,” Tio said, “you will want to eat well, dress well, live well. Surely, you would like to live in a place better than what you left.”

Food, clothes — they are important, but not that important. Still, I must not antagonize my relatives, not on my first day in their house. “Yes, Tio,” I said meekly. “I know that. I just don’t know what I want to be.”

Tio clapped his hands in delight. “So there. You see, Betty, Pepe will be a success. It is just that he still does not know what he wants. Give him a year, he will.”

In a year. I turned the words over in my mind, but even then I was already thinking how I would be able to free myself from the clutches of the world’s end, this street called Antipolo.

Monday, and I was left in the apartment to mark time. After a breakfast of fried rice, tuyo, and coffee with Tia Betty and her voluble husband, I went back to my room upstairs and lay on the old iron cot. How would I fit in this old house, in this dilapidated neighborhood, which, even in the hush-hush hours, was already noisy with the snort of jeepneys and the babble of housewives?

Downstairs, Lucy, the Bisayan atsay from Dumaguete, was singing softly the latest Nora Aunor song—I once had a dear old mother who loved me tenderly — for when I was a baby, she took good care of me.… My thoughts meandered to Cabugawan again. How would Mother be on this bleak June morning? At least her bastard son would not be around to annoy her, remind her of an ancient grief. I could see her now, the traces of sorrow in the somber eyes, and again, I was nagged by guilt, for here I was, with the money she had saved, to be what she wanted me to be. Tio Bert and Tia Betty, they, too, would be hounding me with fancy ideas about the lofty virtues of a college degree; only with it could I flee the deadening embrace of Cabugawan.

Just look at me, my uncle seemed to say; just look at me! He clerked for this Chinese merchant in Binondo and his morning ceremony was to polish the small brass sign beside our door: ALBERTO S. BULAN, and underneath, also in brass but in smaller letters, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW AND NOTARY PUBLIC. Having done that, sometimes with his handkerchief, sometimes with a paper napkin, he would zipper his cheap, plastic portfolio and then, puffing his chest, he would be on his way, waddling down the alley to Dimasalang for his jeepney. Moments later, Auntie Betty would leave by the same route for the elementary school in Sampaloc where she had been teaching for more than three decades — thirty years! Do people really work at the same dreary job for that long? The very thought was stupefying.

I was jolted from sleep when a train roared by, its horn blowing harshly, and the house shook like an empty crate. It was like an earthquake. I was so shaken I could not sleep anymore. But only that morning. I soon became accustomed to their roaring, clanging, shrieking — the diesel trolleys, the commuter trains, the Bicol Express, the Limited to Lucena, the baggage cars. Through their clangor I would sleep soundly on.

I walked around the neighborhood, taking in the narrow streets — Isagani, Sisa, Blumentritt — characters in Rizal’s novels. The wooden houses were old and weather-lashed and their tin roofs were rusty. Along our street was the same crowdedness, the shacks of squatters farther down the railroad line, and everywhere big-bellied, hungry children and jobless men in rubber slippers idling in doorways.

Our immediate neighbors, my aunt said, were nice; most of them had lived in the area as long as they. An Ilocano clerk was to our right and the new tenant, though she had been there for almost two years, occupied the apartment to our left; I saw her once coming out of the house with her maid; she was pretty and about my age, with shapely legs and breasts that begged to be fondled. She was the mistress of a businessman, or police agent, and he often parked beyond the alley in his green Mercedes 220, the only evidence of affluence in our neighborhood. She was very quiet, very polite, and as Auntie said, she could have been anyone’s ideal wife.

All through the haze of day and through the night, thoughts of Tio Tony, Antonio Samson, my father, badgered me, and though I tried to imagine how it would be to love him the way I loved Mother, I just could not. I remembered his visit long ago to Cabugawan, the way Mother would change the subject abruptly if his name came up in conversations. Mother had kept a scrapbook of his writings as if it were the most precious of documents. When she was not around Auntie Bettina sometimes talked about him in tones of the highest esteem. I resented how he never came to claim me, or tell me, and I resented, too, Auntie and Mother, not for what had happened but for their not telling me.

At supper I asked about him again and Auntie Betty said he wrote a book — it was there on the shelf — that I should read so that I would know what his thoughts were. She was proud of how he had gotten his Ph.D. through perseverance, which, damn it, they said I should also have, and yes, they would help all they could. But most of all, how well he had married into the Villas and how rich he would have been, how comfortable we would have all been, if he had only lived!

How did he die? I finally asked the question that had bothered me all through the tedious day.

“An accident, a most horrible accident,” my aunt said.

Uncle Bert stood up, walked to the kitchen and pointed through the iron grills of the rear window that opened to the tracks. “There … there … that was where we picked him up. I mean, that was where we picked up the mangled pieces. It was early dawn — about five, or maybe four,” he said quietly. “He perhaps did not know that the train was on this track …”

I joined him at the window. The rails, almost choked with weeds, were shiny with the last vestiges of day, the rock bed dirty with the garbage and dust of the dry season. I could imagine him walking there, and the train rushing at him. I could see him beyond human shape, his blood on the iron, the rocks and weeds. He must have felt trapped or rendered deaf; the trains always slowed down when they approached this bend of the tracks, for a scant two hundred meters away was not only a crossing but the station of Antipolo. Besides, the train’s headlight could light up the house, my room, with the brightness of day. It was a senseless way to die.

I took his book from the shelf—The Ilustrados—but did not read it. I preferred literature. I felt strange handling my father’s book, leafing through it as if it were a part of him inanimate in my hands. These were his thoughts, but I did not want to know them, to know him, for there was one thing I was sure of: he did not care; he forsook me and Mother. The damn train. I would look out onto the tracks every morning and imagine him there, how it was when he died, what troubled his mind, for he must have been in deep thought as Tio Bert had said, so deep he did not hear the train coming! There are no more steam engines, but I remember them from when I was a boy, spewing steam, chugging, big black monsters with bronze bells clanging. They are all diesel now, but it was not a diesel train that had killed him. Could he really have committed suicide? He had written a book; he had married well. It should be me — living off my relatives, on my mother’s meager earnings. I could contemplate taking my own life, but that dastardly, foolish act, I couldn’t even think about it.

I went to Diliman, convinced that I could not enroll because my grades were low. If I had to take the entrance exams, I would have to review. I did not relish that or the idea of studying there, for it became clear that I would come across people who knew my father, and meeting them, being subjected to their inquisition, would be too traumatic for me to bear. I had to make the motions, however, if only for my uncle and aunt, who would then tell Mother how it was that I was not admitted to the University of the Philippines. The real reason, however, was that I had spent my tuition money, and all that was left after two weeks of cavorting was one hundred fifty pesos, not enough for the entrance fee. It did not happen in a way that would have left me chastised and sad; I saw two movies a day, gorged myself with fried chicken, siopao, mami, and pancit canton—all the goodies I never had in Cabugawan.

We had enough to eat in Antipolo, the infernal vegetable stew with almost no meat in it, and I got easily tired of that. A TV set adorned the living room, but it was there for display and rarely did my uncle and aunt look at it; they were saving on electricity, for they always went around the house turning lights off.

With the little money I had left, and worried that Mother would know I was not enrolled, I went to Recto with just enough for a quarterly payment. What was one wrong initial? If it was not UP, it was a diploma mill. No degree in the world could improve me anyway.

“Recto!”—the jeepney drivers shout it, the name circumscribes and describes youth, the urban malady, and pollution; bakya supermarket at one end, which is Divisoria, and vision and corruption, or whatever you want to call it, at the other … Malacañang. It is this other end, the vision-corruption part, that would be familiar ground to me for four years.

Recto! Rectum of Manila! Here are the odors of the posterior, particularly when the sun is warm and a busted sewer is gushing yellowish froth, with flies as big as bottle caps on the garbage piles. But we are young and if we see them, we look away. It will all be swept clean when the revolution comes and this Recto … this will be the boulevard of great erudition; it will be the avenue of hope. It already is to thousands upon thousands like me, for it is here where I go to school. Recto has these diploma mills, about half a dozen of them, and at dusk the students pour out of the airless schoolrooms, clogging the street and the narrow, smelly sidewalks, their young voices mingling with the noxious bedlam of a thousand jeepneys. Coming out of one of the Kung Fu movies on any afternoon, the faces I see have a certain pallid gloss to them — a trick of sunlight maybe, or it may just be the kind of funereal patina that covers everyone, for in this mass of young people are the great unwashed hoping to be scrubbed clean, hoping to be someone other than their anonymous selves.

I met Augusto Salcedo on my first day at school. Toto was as tall as I, with thick glasses that made him look like an underfed owl. He approached me in the corridor that morning and asked if the room beside me was for World Lit and it was, so he stayed and sat beside me when class started.

Our teacher, Professor Balitoc, had an M.A. in English literature from the University of California at Berkeley, and he never stopped reminding us of it. I liked him because he truly loved literature and could regale us with his own interpretations of the great novels he assigned to us.

Toto was taking liberal arts, too, but his course was heavy on science and math; World Literature was the only humanities subject he had that semester and it worried him, for he never liked works of the imagination. “Novels, they … they,” he stammered a bit, “are so difficult to follow and I get lost in the long-winded dialogues.”

“Read the comics,” I said.

He smiled. “That is what I do.”

I no longer had money to splurge on food, so I had to go home at noon to the vegetable stew my aunt had taught Lucy how to cook. The maid was alone most of the time, for my uncle and aunt worked the whole day. She had already finished cooking. She was dark and a little chubby, but her face was warm, friendly. She had finished high school and had wanted to study in Manila, but she did not have enough money. She had worked instead as a maid for one of Aunt Betty’s fellow teachers, but the teacher no longer needed her so she passed Lucy off to my aunt who took her grudgingly although Aunt Betty often complained how difficult the housework was.

“You can eat now if you want to,” Lucy said at the door. I was warm and perspiring, for though the rains had started and the brown weeds along the tracks had started greening, it was still humid.

The shower adjoined the kitchen and I started soaping myself with the laundry bar. I was a virgin. Though I knew all that should be done, the most that had happened was a brief interlude with Marie; she was in section B in my senior year and I often danced with her at our high school parties, holding her so tight her breasts were pressed close against my chest, and I could feel the smooth curve of her thighs. But there were few chances for us to be alone, and though we had some sort of understanding that we would continue the relationship when she got to college in Manila, her family could not raise the money for her tuition and board.

Anyway, I was soaping myself and had to do it again. It did not take long really and, though I enjoyed it, I looked forward to the time when it would be for real.

When I got out, Lucy was at the bathroom door, her face lighted up with mischief. I was very embarrassed when she asked in a bantering manner, “What have you been doing?”

She was slightly older than I, maybe twenty-five, and I asked angrily, “What do you do when you take a bath?”

“It depends,” she said. “I didn’t hear the shower for some time.”

“You do not rub off the dirt or soap yourself?”

“It was not soaping or rubbing,” she said, looking at me, the grin on her face telling me that she knew.

I fumbled and did not know what to say.

Then, confirmation, the laughter crinkling the corners of her mouth.

“You peeped!” and I went after her.

I did not want to hurt her, and I really was not angry, just embarrassed. I grabbed at her, but she was ready, and we were soon wrestling like two children from the kitchen on to the living room. I pinched her buttocks and she yelped aloud, then she grabbed my arm and bit it so hard, I cried at her to stop. When she let go, I held her and dragged her to the floor, then pinned her down, panting. She glared at me, her breasts heaving; I had her legs wide apart, my torso between them. Her arms were pinned down and she could not move except to try to bring her head up. Then, suddenly, I felt this stirring and, bending down but still holding her wrists so that she could not hit back, I kissed her breasts. Almost immediately her struggling ceased, and when I looked at her face, the fight was no longer there — instead, the unerring light of expectation, of wonder. Bending over, releasing her hand, I kissed her, thrust my tongue into her mouth.

I really did not care anymore if a sudden knock exploded on the door or if the windows were open, which they were not because they were always shut more as a matter of precaution against robbers than for privacy.

I thought conquest would be easy, for, by then, the compulsions that were surging in me could no longer be leashed. But Lucy started pushing me, wriggling, and was all arms and elbows and pointed knees. But these, more than anything, served only to heighten my resolve and convinced me afterward that there was a latent rapist in me. Her resistance, it turned out, was temporary; I do not know if it was just to show that she was no easy prey or that she wanted to test how determined I was. Or maybe she found out how physically strong and well beyond calming I was and that there was no further sense in lengthening the struggle.

My entry was gentle and smooth; through her gasps, she said: “Do not hurry … please. No one will be here … we have all the time.”

She did a lot of housework, but her hands were not rough. They were soft, beautiful hands, exquisitely expert and strong; her breasts were firm and after a time she cautioned me, for, as she said, they began to hurt.

After we had lain for a delicious length of time on the tiles, which were cold, we went up to my room. We had become impervious to cold, sweetly unconscious of everything but the rhythm and warmth of our bodies. We took our time upstairs as she had suggested, savoring each other in the light of day, and then it was dusk, time for her to cook dinner. Exhausted, it was an act of will for us to part.

Everything was not in the script, everything was not as I had read in those paperbacks that passed through our hands in high school — explicit American guidebooks to that mysterious domain that is woman. I had thought that I would be clear-minded and would recall everything — the step-by-step preparation, the plateau, the peak, the cozy, cuddling talk and display of tenderness that would cap it all — but I had merely acted out the hasty and irrational beast. I did not forget, however, to ask her if she was happy and in reply she looked at me — those big, black eyes dreamy and half-closed — and nodded.

I had fulfilled a prophecy made when I was thirteen by an aging sacristan named Lakay Benito. He was the oldest acolyte in the church, a tenacious remnant of a bygone age, out of place in a church where they also played guitars and sang Ilocano and English hymns. He was, however, at his best in the novenas held in our houses when he responded in Latin, his rich, sonorous voice booming Ora Pro Nobis. All the way back, as far as memory could drag me, he had been to us not only an acolyte, whose knowledge of Latin opened secret vistas, omnipotent talismans beyond the comprehension of many even in Cabugawan, but was also a brujo, an herbolario,^‡ and he looked it. A wisp of a beard dangled from his chin and his white hair framed a dark face pocked by two piercing eyes, a large black mouth, and an eggplant protruberance for a nose. His legs were spindly and bowed and he could not wear shoes except Japanese rubber sandals because his toes were splayed from walking barefoot in the muddy fields for too many years. He performed the ceremony of manhood for all the boys in the village when they reached puberty. That early January morning six of us gathered in his yard, shivering in the cold. He had built a bonfire of dry bamboo slats and coconut leaves and we had sat around it, waiting. He came down the stairs in his cotton carzoncillo† and under his arm, an old, soiled kit and a bundle of young guava leaves. Then he led us to the creek.

Strips of fog floated over the calm, still waters. He picked me to be the first, maybe because he liked me, I think, enough to teach me my first oración,^‖ a charm to ward away malevolent dogs — an oración in Latin that I should not repeat to anyone, else it would lose its potency.

We all stripped on the bank of the creek. I squatted before him, surrounded by the other boys, my fear spiced with curiosity as I watched him unsheath the razor, slide back the foreskin with a bamboo stick and then, with one swift whack, cut it off. It hurt a little, no more than a bee sting, but then the blood started to ooze and would not stop. He did not appear worried, but my anxiety now turned to fright. He chewed the guava leaves, then spat them on the wound, mumbling words I could not understand. The blood formed a small puddle on the dry earth. After what seemed like an hour, the bleeding stopped and he looked at me, his craggy face lighted up. “You are a bleeder, and that is very good.”

I went home to a special breakfast of fried eggs and adobo — a rarity in our house. Mother and Auntie Bettina were all smiles, but they never asked how it was. I had become a man.

Lakay Benito had wrapped the wound with a clean rag. I was not only a bleeder. In another day, the wound had swelled and frightened me again, I had to show it to him. “Big, overripe tomato,” he chuckled, his eyes shining, “Pepe, a few more years and I predict you will make your women very happy.”

* The beer bottle has four corners (cuatro cantos).

† Bangus: milkfish.

‡ Brujo: A sorcerer; herbolario: an herbalist or folk medicine man.

§ Carzoncillo: Men’s shorts that are tied around the waist with a string. Usually made of cotton, often knee-length.

‖ Oración: Prayer, usually in Latin (Sp.).

Paper Tiger

So much for the loss of my virginity.

At school my thoughts always meandered to the remembered feel of skin, silky motions, musky scents. I could hardly wait for the morning class to be over so I could hurry home and find out how efficient were the Masters and Johnson instructions, how true their thesis. But for all the grace of Lucy, I did not miss a day of school; a dogged sense of doing what was expected of me or perhaps a belated acceptance of duty kept me there.

One day, Toto, whom I had taken to be a serious student, asked if I wanted to join a student organization in the university, The Brotherhood. They were recruiting new members and I had seemed to him an excellent candidate.

“It is a very active organization,” Toto said. “You will like it; we discuss contemporary history in our meetings. And you know so much.”

I would be nice to Toto; after all, he occasionally invited me for a Coke and once or twice for siopao and coffee, although I had not been able to reciprocate. He was a scholar and also had a job as an acolyte for a priest in Tondo. He said he was an orphan and did not have to worry about saving money.

I had other ideas. I tried to hold off but I remembered his acts of kindness, the Coke, and the siopao, and he even gave me a paperback book that his priest boss gave him, a novel, Man’s Fate, by André Malraux.

Gratitude! Why do I always have to be grateful? Why couldn’t I do things because I liked to do them and not because I wanted to repay a favor? I came to Manila, to this university, not because I wanted to but because I did not want to displease Mother and Auntie Bettina. I tried to get home early, although there was no specific demand that I do so, because I wanted to be grateful to Tio Bert and Auntie Betty for the room and for the dinengdeng. And I did not try to impose myself on Lucy when my relatives were at home not because discretion demanded it but because I was grateful to her for being my first, grateful that she gave herself to me, and not because I was worried that she might lose her job if we were found out.

And here I was being grateful again to Toto, whose friendship I did not seek but who had nonetheless become my friend and was someone I could tell everything to, although I did not tell him about my father or Lucy.

We went to the small noodle restaurant at Recto and had siopao espesyal, and because Auntie Bettina had not arrived yet with my money, Toto paid again.

We walked from there to a cramped wooden apartment in Dapitan where the meeting was to be held. I had expected a big group, but there were only four of us. Five others straggled in. Perfunctory introductions were made as we came from several nearby schools — Far Eastern, Santo Tomas, PCC, National U, UM. We filled the small living room cluttered with newspapers, pamphlets, and that cheaply varnished furniture found in abundance in Misericordia. We had soft drinks without ice and an open can of chocolate cookies that was soon empty.

The meeting did not start till after two. I had become restless and told Toto that I wanted to leave, but then a man in his early thirties arrived and everyone stood up. Toto had told me a little about him, so here he was — the epitome of virtue, of intellect — a lean man with a mop of dry, uncombed hair in a cheap cotton shirt that was not properly ironed. He was a political science professor at my university and I recalled a poster in the corridor about his public lecture on nationalism and the oligarchy that was crammed to overflowing when it was held at the Student Hall. He looked undernourished and dried up, but there was this warm smile on his face as he greeted us and tried to have a word with everyone, and for Toto, a patronizing arm around the shoulder. He apologized for being late. The Brotherhood, he said, was now being put through an inquisition. The dean, he said, was particularly vexed with him, with his nonacademic activities, and had wanted him to resign. He was able to convince the dean otherwise, he said, by appealing to his sense of decency, his compassion, but at the same time, implying that the Brotherhood may do something drastic if this happened — a student strike, for instance. He must work quietly now, stay in the background, and henceforth, it was the students who must be in the forefront, doing the hard chores of organization, of demonstration, if the Brotherhood was to thrive.

I listened with amusement; the man was angling for sympathy. He started talking about the Brotherhood in tones almost sacramental. This is the answer to the problems of the young, of inequality, disunity, and corruption. If the nation had been exploited by imperialists, if the caciques were despoiling the land and making serfs of freemen, it is because the young have not banded together to spell out the future in their own terms. The Brotherhood would make war on the enemies of democracy, and the young could triumph in this war for the Brotherhood is theirs to use.

The harangue lasted for a while. I looked at the rapt faces around me and then I chanced a glance at Toto and was surprised to see him looking at me; I winked at him and he seemed ill at ease that I had caught him observing my reaction to the speech. I never liked speeches, whether by professional politicians or professors turned politicians. I had lived long enough in a village to know who exploits the little people — the landlord, yes, and the money-lenders, too. But it is the riffraff who really take advantage of their own kin. I had planted vegetables in the yard and when the eggplants were ready, who would come but our neighbors, asking for them when they could easily have planted their own.

He was through and he looked around. I realized that we were a carefully selected group.

“Any questions?” he asked perfunctorily and was surprised when I raised my hand. I was the only one to do so. I glanced at Toto, at his shock, as if I had just committed the worst indiscretion. But hell, I am not a robot that will go where it is pushed. The professor turned to me, his eyes expectant: “Yes, please.”

I asked plainly, “What can we expect from the Brotherhood? Why should I give it loyalty? What do I get in return?”

I had caught him unaware and he fumbled for words. “Please clarify your question” he said. “Am I to understand that you expect benefits from such a membership? Is that what you want to ask?”

I nodded. “You see, sir,” I said, “when a politician comes to our village and makes a pretty speech about corruption in government, about how he intends to change things when he gets elected, we know it’s just words. But sometimes, particularly before the election, he gets our muddy road fixed. And of course, there is the five pesos he distributes to those who can vote.”

They all laughed and even Professor Hortenso smiled. “I cannot promise you these things,” he said. “As a matter of fact, you may not get anything from the Brotherhood. It is you who will give to it. As duty, perhaps, if you can look at it that way.”

“You cannot ask the poor for sacrifices,” I said. “We are already poor. What can we give? How do you measure the patriotism of the poor?”

The giggling had stopped and now everyone was listening.

His eyes turned upward, to the unpainted ceiling; his words were soft but clear, as if he had searched his conscience for them: “I ask,” he said finally, his eyes roving around the room to each of us, “that you give faith, your presence, your little support — centavos, if they are needed — your muscle, your time, your numbers. When there is a demonstration, you should be there, leading because you are the leaders. When there are petitions, you should sign them. When there are errands, run them. What can the Brotherhood give you in return? I tell you: nothing, nothing but strength. Alone, you are nobody. The Brotherhood gives you numbers. Unity. And with the masses with whom you will be welded, for whom you will be working … you will be doing something for the future that is yours to shape in any way you like. It will not be for people like me; we are getting on in years. It will not be for your parents. It will be for you because you are young and the whole world is ahead of you. The Brotherhood will ask you to work till you sweat blood. And your reward is not here, now, but in the future — if you live that long.” A long pause. “If you believe in yourselves then do not deny yourselves … this is all that I can say, and I am sorry,” he turned to me, “that I cannot, myself, promise you something more substantial. But,” he smiled, “you are always welcome at my house and there is always coffee and cookies.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. I did not like speeches, but Professor Hortenso was honest. I clapped and the others followed.

We started to break up, and as we headed for the door Hortenso came to me, placed an arm on my shoulder. “I am glad you asked that question,” he said. “It enabled me to reexamine my own premises.” He was shaking his head, grinning. “I can get carried away by rhetoric, like most politicians. There’s nothing like a good question to bring one back to earth.” He then asked if I would join him for a cup of coffee.

Almost everyone had filed out into the street. Toto and I were the only ones left in the room. I could feel his nudge on my back.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Very much.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, talked to someone there, and a woman emerged. “My wife,” he said, and she smiled at us, a tiny woman in her early thirties, beauty in her full lips, thin straight nose, high cheekbones, and eyes that sparkled. She must have been listening to everything, for her eyes were on me. So this is where they really lived, this dingy apartment no better than my auntie’s in Antipolo, and I wondered how much he made teaching and why he had time to serve us coffee. It must have been brewed over thrice for it was very weak. There was also a stained saucer with a few limp cookies, but the siopao still held. It was already four in the afternoon and Professor Hortenso was going to talk on. Toto obviously wanted to stay longer, but now my thoughts were straying to Lucy, who would be waiting and her welcome would be far better, more to my liking than this cup of stale coffee and soggy cookie.

Sheer patience and deference to Toto made me stay and listen to his prattle about the economic classes, the need for hothouse ideology and all that razzle-dazzle about the future of Filipino society. Though I had grown to like him for his forthrightness, for his hospitality, instinct told me I did not have to listen to him. I was from Cabugawan; he was not telling me anything I did not know — the exploitation, the squalid hypocrisies. And much as I appreciated his candor and honesty, the kind of activism he was proposing was not for me, it was for Toto, perhaps, quiet, introspective, his eyes always burning. I was concerned with more earthy matters, mami espesyal and Lucy, than in battering the bastion of Pobres Park or the high walls of Malacañang.

He finally came around to asking my name — the dreaded question that would fling me back to that harsh and brutal past I had tried to leave behind. A pain more ancient than memory, as once again: “Are you related to Antonio Samson?” He must have gleaned it from the membership form Toto had asked me to fill out. “Yes,” I mumbled, expecting the next question. “I— He is an uncle, my mother’s first cousin.” Under my breath I cursed the lie I had to live. Toto regarded me as though I was as pure as virtue, glowing with kindness and honesty. While this turmoil raged within, Professor Hortenso went on equably: “I hope that you have read it — his classic on the ilustrados. What shall I call you? What do your friends call you?”

“Everyone calls me Pepe.”

“Well, Pepe, there you are, your own uncle providing you many of the answers, perhaps the answers to all the questions you are asking. He explains why the revolution failed and he reminds us, and clearly, too, what mistakes to avoid. The most perceptive book on our history ever written, and it was written by your uncle. You should be proud, Pepe, the way I am proud that his nephew is now a member of the Brotherhood. He is dead and I was told it was a horrible accident. It is a shame, really, that he was only able to write one book when he could have written more. I am sure he must have manuscripts lying around. You must look into that and see if they can be brought out. He could have easily been the brains of the Second Revolution — its genuine ideologue. I have very little to contribute, really”—he sounded so humble—“except my little time and that is not enough.” His eyes shone and I could not look at him straight for I was uneasy. I looked down instead at my battered shoes, at the doormat of shredded old tire that had gone awry, the rubber slippers there — probably his — the scuffed tile floor that was dirtied with the comings and goings of people. He enthused: “Antonio Samson had proven one thing — and you should know it and be proud of it: that with his background we know for sure leadership need not come from the social and economic elite, that it should spring from the masses.”

In a sense he was justifying himself, but I really did not know much about him then, how he graduated from a splendid English university. I resented it, his implication that it was good to be poor, that the poor had superior virtues, qualities to be rhapsodized about because they were poor; there was nothing noble, nothing exalted about going hungry, about having to live in Cabugawan, and though I had not meant to be rude, I think that was how I sounded when I said, “He married a very wealthy girl. Perhaps that was what he was working for all the time.”

The professor drew away; shock was splattered all over his face, and it stayed there for some time. Then, perhaps thinking I was just making light of a relative, he ignored my remark and went on: “There is nothing wrong with being wealthy — I hope you did not misunderstand. We all want to be comfortable, that is a common human aspiration. But precisely, it is not possible for as long as the ceiling to our aspirations is low. It is actually limited by our rich, by our oligarchy, and our government, which serves the upper classes but not the people.”

No need for me to linger; his words bored me to my very bones and made me feel sorry for him, for he was sincere and he would die at the barricades together with Toto. I made another move to the door but Professor Hortenso held my arm. “Pepe, we need your help.” I did not want to embarrass Toto, and for his sake — mustering all the light and sweetness I was capable of, although I was about to retch the putrid words of valor, of commitment — I said, “You can depend on me.” He and his wife obviously believed me, for they both grabbed my arm and shook it so hard I thought they would wrench it off.

Yet I was sorry to leave them, their small, lightless apartment that probably flooded when the rains came; I was sorry that I was bored, that I had not been more attentive and was just thinking of myself, but who would do that for me? I was silent, walking with Toto on the sidewalk, avoiding the piles of garbage that had not been collected for days, remembering how he had asked me about my father and how I had lied again.

“Isn’t he good?” Toto was gushing, keeping in step with me, for I was really hurrying. We would both go to Quezon Boulevard, where he would take his ride for Quiapo, then Tondo, and I would catch the first jeepney there for Dimasalang. “He likes you. He is very sharp and he knows the bright ones, the ones who think and who care.” He nudged me and I turned to him briefly and snorted, but he would not be bothered now by any snide remark I made.

“Yes,” I said dully.

“Do you know,” Toto spoke with wonder, “that he spends his own pay — the little he can afford — for the Brotherhood? I have known him for a long time — he and Father Jess are very good friends and each does his own thing. He is very dedicated.”

“I can see that,” I said glumly.

“You made a good impression,” Toto hit me playfully on the arm. “I am sure you will be somebody in the Brotherhood.”

“I always make a good impression,” I said lightly.

“Let us go to Tondo. I want you to meet Father Jess, too.”

“And impress him just as well? No, I have done enough impressing today.”

But he missed the sarcasm, for he hit me lightly on the arm again. His ride came and I pushed him toward it lest he tarry. “Tomorrow,” he called, but I did not look back; I had started to run toward the boulevard to catch my jeepney.

The house was padlocked when I arrived; Lucy must have gone to market to buy vegetables for the abominable stew again. I sat on the hollow blocks lining the small greenery before the apartment and waited. Across the patch of grass, from the alley, the green Mercedes of the tenant next to us was parked and the apartment door was open. When he saw me, he gave one of those meaningless smiles that was supposed to be neighborly. We never really knew his kind of living except that he always wore brightly printed shirts, his hair slick and well-groomed, his fingernails manicured, and he sported a ring with a big sparkler. And on his hip always, if his shirt was tucked in, was the butt of a revolver. We had surmised that he must be a detective, but Uncle Bert said he must be a fixer at the Bureau of Customs or a customs broker, for he often saw him there on the several occasions my uncle followed up the papers of his Chinese boss. Obviously, neither his mistress nor her maid was in. She rarely came out of the apartment, except at night when the Mercedes was parked in the alley and he came to pick her up. She seemed to pass the hours watching television or reading the comics that a newsboy always slipped under her door.

Now he stood up, walked toward the door, and leaned on it. He was no taller than I, but he was well-built, tautly muscular, and had a bull neck that his long hair could not quite hide. He was in his early fifties but had the easygoing manner of a much younger person. “Well, you are locked out and I am locked in,” he laughed. “We can talk together while waiting. No use being alone.”

I did not rise from the hollow block I sat on. I was really in no mood to talk; I was eager for Lucy and nothing more.

“What college?” he glanced at my notebooks and the new pamphlet from Professor Hortenso.

I replied in the polite language.

He shook his head. “You should have gone to UP — or Ateneo, La Salle …”

His implication about my school’s inferiority vexed me; in the short time that I was at Recto, I had grown to like my university, my crowd. “If I had the money, that is where I would have gone,” I said, not looking at him. “How could anyone who lives in this alley afford those schools?”

He laughed lightly. “That is the problem with young people nowadays,” he said. “You think only of difficulties. There are so many ways to make money. What I was going to say is that if you were studying there, I could even give you a job, perhaps with more than enough to pay for your tuition. After all, I feel that I already know you, your being a next-door neighbor. And more than that …” he shook his head and grinned, “You are really a toro.”

I was surprised by what he had implied; we had talked about the toro once in school, although I had never seen one at work. He is the male performer in the sex shows that they stage in Pasay, in Caloocan, and in Ermita — for only ten pesos. I ignored his remark.

“Which is good,” he continued. “You will have many chances with women and you will make a good salesman. I am really serious,” he said, nudging my knee with his shoe for I was not looking at him.

“Think about it,” he said as I turned. “If you can manage, you should transfer to La Salle or Ateneo next semester. I just had this idea, you know. I will pay for your tuition, but you can pay it back in a month — I assure you — and then you will be earning money. You look bright, you are good-looking — and most important, you are a toro!”

I stood up, irritated and not quite sure what he was really trying to say. Continuing in the polite language, I asked what a toro was. He smiled, took me by the arm, and drew me inside the apartment.

It was my first time inside. With the upholstered furniture in the living room, I realized immediately what a cozy, well-furnished apartment it was. The refrigerator, big, shiny, and new; the electric oven; the pictures on the wall. He took me up the flight to the two rooms upstairs, painted in cool blue, in one another set of chairs upholstered in blue velvet, a Sony color TV, a stereo set like the expensive ones displayed in Avenida, and then, to the other room, the massive, mahogany bed, a glass cabinet filled with his mistress’s clothes and his suits and shirts, and on one side of the room, the air conditioner humming. How comfortable the whole place appeared compared to the drab appointments that were ours behind the wooden wall. Here then was what money can do even in Antipolo.

He shucked off his shoes and asked me to do the same, then he went up the bed and pointed to a portion of the wall just below the ceiling. He beckoned to me to look. A narrow crack in the panel showed clearly the floor of my room — just where Lucy and I had lain.

He went down the bed, chortling. “Mila discovered it,” he said. “She has been comparing you with me. After all, I am a full thirty years older than you. I cannot do it twice anymore like I used to. Ah, when I was younger! Now, not even with vitamin E and KH3 and all that sort of thing — they aren’t much help.”

His words, every nuance, were mirror-clear. He was not telling me that he enjoyed watching, he was saying that he envied me, for his mistress was young and she must have desires he could no longer satisfy. We went down to the living room and he opened the refrigerator. It was stocked with food — enough to last a month, cheeses I had never seen, preserved meats, candies. He opened a bottle of San Miguel, but I never liked beer and told him so. He hastily opened a Coke, which I took, together with a cold leg of fried chicken. I was beginning to feel comfortable after my embarrassment when I had looked down the crack in the wall.

We went back to the door and its unchanging view of weeds and dilapidated houses. He asked me my name and when I told him, he said, “Pepe, do not po-po^* me. Just call me kuya† if you can’t muster enough will to call me Nick.”

“All right, kuya.”

“But don’t ever tell my wife that I took you upstairs,” he nudged me with his elbow and I almost dropped the glass. A burst of laughter, then he was all seriousness again. “You must really go to La Salle. I think it is easier for you to be a salesman there. And it is much easier getting them to buy, too. You can start in the next semester.”

“What will I be selling?”

Another nudge and laughter. “You want to earn money, don’t you? There are easy ways of making it if you know the right people, like Kuya Nick.” He gave a flourish with his hand then thrust his chin toward the alley. The neighborhood kids were shouting at one another in their immemorial game of patintero and, beyond them, Lucy was coming but without her market basket.

He took my empty glass and closed the door, saying, “I will see you again.”

One of those faultless June afternoons coming to an end. It began to get dark. When Lucy saw me, she smiled wanly as if to say she was sorry. “Where have you been?” I asked hotly. “I have been waiting here for hours.”

She opened the door and we hurried in. There would be time before my aunt and uncle arrived and Lucy sensed the urgency, too. But the idea of being watched, now that I knew it, dampened my desire. Still, I wondered if I could perform knowing that someone was watching. I decided not to tell Lucy, but that I would try and put on a show that the mistress next door would not forget. Perhaps she might even end up wanting me and that would be something over Kuya Nick and his diamond ring, his manicured nails, and his Mercedes 250.

Lucy was explaining that she had gone to visit her sister — she did this once a week, no exact day — and she was sorry she had not told me.

I ignored her explanation as I put the latch on, then kissed her. Her mouth was wet and she kissed me with passion. Her arms around me were viselike and her hair smelled of sun and cigarette smoke. I wanted it right there, the door behind us, but she would not let me.

“No,” she said. “It is much too late. I have to cook. I have to cook—” She quickly disengaged herself, but I followed her to the kitchen, my hands eagerly all over her, my lips on her nape. She stood still and let me do what I wanted, but when I turned her around, she kept saying, “Pepe, there is no time. Tomorrow, please, we have all the time tomorrow …”

It really had to be on the morrow, for in another instant there was a rap on the door. I kissed her again then went to open it. It was Tio Bert, arriving a bit earlier than usual.

I bade him good evening and he seemed surprised to see me. He switched on the light in the living room. I did not ask why, but he seemed to think it necessary to explain—“I finished early today”—then he rushed upstairs. I tried to tell him that I had to wait at the door, for Lucy had gone to visit her sister, and perhaps it was time for me to have a key but he mumbled, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, we will talk about it.” But when he came down finally, shortly before my aunt arrived, and I repeated what I had said, he said perfunctorily that he would have the key made, but that I was not to mention to my aunt that Lucy had gone out and left the house. She would not understand, there would be another scolding, and it was so difficult to get a maid nowadays, they were all working in the factories for higher wages.

“So many robberies in Manila, Tio,” I said. “Your TV. If Lucy plans on visiting her sister, she can go when I am here so that there will always be someone in the house.”

He thought it was a good idea — yes, it should be that way — but he would give me a key nonetheless — it was so easy to have one duplicated, but again, conspiratorially whispering, “Don’t tell your tia Betty. It is so difficult to get a good maid.”

I could not sleep, thinking of Kuya Nick, his promise that I would earn enough to pay him back in a month. Selling what? I pressed my ear to the wooden wall to hear any sound of his mistress moving about, but there was none loud enough to penetrate the wall. I placed a chair beside the wall and stood on it; then, with the lights out, I peered into the crack, but all I could see was the ceiling. Sleep finally came to me after midnight; the last baggage train had thundered by, shaking the house like a matchbox. When I woke up, it was already light and Lucy was on my bed, kissing me, telling me we were alone again.

She pinched me saying I had been naughty and impatient; now we had all the time. The old cot creaked so we transferred to the floor. I had an urge to turn to the crack above, to wink at it, for with all the noise we were raising she must be watching and wondering, perhaps, how it would be if it was I, and not Kuya Nick and his vitamin E and KH3, paying homage to her this beautiful day.

Now, to my mind, I was really Toro. A vulgar sense of superiority, of prowess suffused me. My self-control amazed me with its perfection; I was Toro, unflappable; Toro the terrible, endowed with vaunted willpower. I decided to put on a good exhibition and Lucy was responsive — each wave I stirred lifted her, arched her, shook her. She moaned so loud I thought the whole neighborhood would hear. Then I scaled the crest and what a dizzying, electrifying varooming dive it was; I collapsed on her limp, quivering form, a euphoric peace enveloping me like a warm, silk cocoon.

We lay thus for some time — I didn’t know how long — and did not care. Outside children were playing, a vegetable vendor was shouting her wares — eggplants, string beans — and women were gossiping on their way to market. I tensed, hearing a sound in the other apartment. I could hear the hum of the air conditioner. We had been seen.

The greatest show on earth.

I was late for my first-period class, but it was one time I did not mind. Toto obviously did, for he rushed to me when I arrived; it was much too late to go to class so we went to the canteen and had Cokes.

He was stammering again. It was always like this when he was excited. “Pepe, listen, you should really be somebody in the Brotherhood. But first, here, in the university … you must be in the Student Council. That is the important thing. And to be in it you must be class president. You can do it. I can campaign for you and we can prepare posters — all that you will need.”

“Hoy, I am not a politician. I do not like politicians.”

“But you are popular, with boys and girls. Your name … it is easy to remember. And you have personality.”

“Your words are difficult to resist,” I said in high humor. “Flattery will get you somewhere.”

“I am serious, Pepe,” he said. “First we have to elect you class president — that will be next week — then you must run for the Student Council.”

“What will it get me?” I asked the old question.

It flustered him. “I don’t know, more popularity I think. But that is not the reason. I am thinking of the Brotherhood. If we can have a member of the Brotherhood in a high position, in all the high positions … can you not see what this means? It is so damn basic.” He was exasperated. “All right, you will be invited to many parties. Meet many girls, the prettiest in school. You will even get a scholarship, I think, if you become president of the council. And you will not spend everything for your tuition.”

“Those are things I like to hear,” I said eagerly.

“Damn you!” he cried, the strongest expression I ever heard from him. Then he was contrite. “I wish you were not so demanding, Pepe. But I am beginning to understand. You are very … very pragmatic.”

“Practical!”

I put my arm around his shoulder. “Toto, if it will make you happy, I will be a candidate.” He did not speak, but I knew he was very pleased.

Looking back, I am surprised at the slow change that had come over me, my interest in school, my running for election, for I was not doing these for myself but for Mother and Tia Bettina. My class was crowded — sixty of us — and I could not ask questions as much as I wanted, and yet I had begun to find the atmosphere to my liking. Some of the teachers were quite repulsive; after all, most of them were there just for a living. If they were any brighter they would be at the elite colleges where the pay was better and the workload lighter.

There was, however, one exception, and that was Professor Hortenso. He had a very good reputation among the teachers, the only Ph.D. from England who was in Recto by choice. It seemed at first as if this permanent smile was plastered on his face. I saw him quite often in the corridors, for he had a full load, which meant teaching classes four hours a day.

My classmates lived in the districts — Sampaloc, Santa Cruz, Tondo — in cramped apartments, and I suspect some of the girls worked in bars and restaurants, particularly those who seemed aloof and well-dressed. The classes at night were packed with students who worked during the day. At nine, when the last classes were over, the human flood gushed out of the dimly lighted halls into the boisterous arteries of the University Belt, racing after buses and jeepneys already bursting with people. By eleven, Recto, Morayta, and Legarda were empty and silent but for the small cafes and restaurants such as those we frequented.

In the end I was left to fend for myself and hammer out my own education. I could fail, of course, for the teachers were not all that lenient, but as long as I read, attended class, and did not get my report card marked for absences, the likelihood of my failing was remote.

The election for class president came within two months of our enrollment, and after that, the election of the University Council. Our class election was no problem. When the call for nominations came, Toto was the first to raise his hand. There were three other candidates and we were allowed five minutes each to speak. I wanted to be last. The first three went beyond their limit, and they perorated on duty, freedom, all the usual stuff about the responsibility of youth and the future of the nation.

I never had stage fright, for as Toto had said, I was so outgoing and extroverted I could manage any crowd.

“I want you to know,” I said, “that I have many honors to my name. In high school, for instance, I was the Ping-Pong champion. [Laughter.] But I do not expect to win this particular election, for I almost failed to make it to this university. Physical education and recess have always been my favorite subjects. [Laughter.] Many politicians, I need not tell you, are dishonest. And because I am now a politician, I should not claim exception. [Laughter.] So I am telling the truth.

“You will want to know what I can do for you. I have no money, but I have a big mouth. [There was now laughter after every sentence.] But you can do something for me. You can elect me. Then, because I have no money, I can, as my good friend here said, attend more parties, get to know more of the girls, and if forced to study, I may even end up with a scholarship.

“You are laughing. But if I lose, it will not be a laughing matter anymore. Since I am supposed to make a promise, I will make one. It will be very difficult for me to do it, but I will try to be honest. If there are funds to be collected, I promise not to spend them alone. I will spend them with the treasurer.

“But I would rather be president. Even if I have to be honest to be it.”

As Toto said, I would easily make it. It was, in his words, lutong macao.^‡ Fifty votes out of sixty.

Next was the Student Council, not the presidency — that was almost always reserved for the seniors who had been in the university longer, had more of a following — just membership, or the secretaryship at the most.

I still did not have money, and I wondered when Kuya Nick would really give me a job, even if only for afternoons. Perhaps I should see him next time his Mercedes was there. Thus, it was Toto again who treated me to siopao and Coke at our cafe in Recto. It was not yet noon, and the place was quite empty, so we had a corner to ourselves.

For all the warmth that I felt for him, I did not deserve his kindness; I had briefly suspected that he was gay, but he made no advances and we even talked of some of the students who were gay, those in the dramatics guild, how some of the more handsome ones made a living being call boys for them. It was just that Toto was raised differently — an orphan. Now, as I ate his siopao, I thanked him for being good to me, then sprang the question: “What have I done for you, Toto?”

“Luck, Pepe,” he said. “You were the first person I met on the first day of school. That is all. I would have developed the friendship of others, but, well, they all seemed plastic. You are a real person.”

“Shit,” I said.

He shook his head and smiled patronizingly. “If you had grown up in an orphanage, you would look at people differently, too. You would understand what I am saying. It is so difficult to explain to someone who has parents, relatives. I never had these — friends in the orphanage, yes, but they all left and we never saw each other again. Sometimes I go there with Father Jess to see the nuns — they are old now, the ones who took care of me. I love them but they belong to another world.”

I had always been myself. Now here was one who needed a brother. “How was it inside? How does one get in?”

He bit into his siopao. “I should take you there sometime. On a Sunday when the kids are taken out for a breath of fresh air. A baby gets in this way: A revolving basket is at the door. The baby is placed there together with anything the mother wants to leave, maybe some clothes. She rings the bell, turns the basket around so that it faces the inside of the orphanage. Then she leaves. The bell would bring the sisters out.”

“What was it like when you were small?”

“It was not a harsh life,” Toto said softly, “if that is what you want to know. Children have little knowledge of what is difficult as long as their bellies are not empty. I did not mind the secondhand clothes. And I had many playmates! But from the very start I knew I was an orphan.”

His eyes were misting, and I told him not to continue if the telling was too painful. “No,” he said, attempting a smile. “It is just that it is a very difficult feeling, to know that you have been cast aside, that no one wanted you, not even your mother.”

I wanted then to tell him that my father did not want me, either, that the world is not cruel, but both of us knew the knavery, the wretchedness around us.

“It does not matter much after you get to accept it,” he said. “Besides, there were the sisters and the maids. They were mothers to us. Then there were the visits of prospective parents — couples who came to look for kids to adopt. Usually they took the very small ones, the babies. But there was always a chance that the bigger ones would be considered. And as we grew older, we knew the importance of these visits and we tried to look our best and act our best, wondering if we would be taken. But the years went on. I grew up and no one took me. The girls were taught skills and some were even chosen as brides. But boys can stay there only till a certain age, after that they must leave. They are too much of a problem, I suppose. That was when Father Jess came — good luck, I should say, for he is a very fine man. Without him, I would not be going to school; I would not be earning a little money so that I can feed you like this.”

“Thank you,” I repeated. I was finished with my siopao.

“Pepe,” he said, “you are honest, even if you joke about it.”

“Shit.”

“You appeal to most. And you are sincere. It shows on your face when you are angry.”

“Then I’ll make a lousy politician.”

“The old kind,” he said, emphatically. “We really need good people, particularly in the Brotherhood. You have no pretensions.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I know psychology. With my background. And in church, I meet many people — phonies telling us problems that are not true. I can read you.”

“Shit again,” I said.

“But most important, Pepe, you are bright. Brighter than I. Though perhaps you don’t know it.”

“I should be feeding you,” I said.

Leaving him, I felt this wonderful warmth suffuse me, satisfied not with the pork siopao but with the friendship. Toto did not want anything from me and I wasn’t going to be of any help to him. He stuttered, he looked lost, he was deeply religious but was an activist. He had nobody but a priest named Father Jess and a professor, both of whom he held in awe. There was also an old woman who cooked for him named Tia Nena. Now he had a brother as well.

When I got home I was surprised to find Lucy furious at me for not having arrived earlier. Toto’s siopao had filled me and I had not realized it was past one. “Now,” she said petulantly, “I cannot go and visit my sister.”

“Shit,” I told her. “Why did you not tell me this morning? You can go now and not blame me. After all, there is the whole afternoon if you wish.”

“But you don’t understand,” she said. “She was waiting for me in Quiapo at lunchtime. And I did not go.”

“I thought you visited her at her home,” I said. “How did you know she was going to wait for you in Quiapo?”

“That is what we agreed on.”

“You should have told me,” I said wearily, all desire for her having ebbed.

“I forgot.” She said it lamely.

I suddenly felt uneasy; intuition told me it was not her sister she was going to see.

“You are lying,” I said. “It was a man you were going to meet in Quiapo.”

“Now, Pepe,” she said, her voice pitching. “Don’t you start suspecting things. I forgot, that is all.”

“Stop it then,” I said, unconvinced.

It was our first quarrel. I went to her and kissed her softly on the cheek, then the lips with passion. But she was holding back; it was as if she was expecting someone anytime to knock at the door, for she would turn that way, although her hands were all over me. After a while, I looked into her eyes. “What is disturbing you? Who are you expecting?”

She blushed, and quickly her arms encircled me again. But I pushed her gently away, looked into her troubled face. “It was not your sister you were going to see, Lucy. It was your lover.”

She got angry; she pushed me roughly saying it was none of my business, then she marched off to the kitchen.

I followed her. “Lucy, it’s two months now. This is not something that I do as a machine. There is some feeling here,” I held her hand and pressed it to my chest. “You must know that. If you do not have feelings at all, I have.”

Her countenance softened. She turned to me and touched my face in a caress. “Do not ask questions,” she said. “We have not known each other for more than two months, like you said. And look what we are already doing. What more do you want?”

“Honesty,” I said.

“But my life is my own.”

“Not anymore, not after what we have done. You are now a part of my life.”

She must have realized how hurt I was, for she kissed me softly and then led me up the stairs to my room again.

I did not put on the greatest show on earth — my mind was too troubled — and when we were finished and relaxed, she said, “If you were the first I am sure that I would have been very hurt.”

She was being honest finally, and though it had not occurred to me to ask, on reflection, I had known that I was not her first. There was no bleeding, and though I had read somewhere that this might not be the case if the girl was athletic, I realized that she had not expressed pain but had, instead, acted with confidence.

“Tell me who was the first,” I asked, turning on my side to look at her pretty, brown face.

She faced me, “You will not be angry?”

“I can bear it. What can I do about the past?”

“I had some difficulty. Of course, I bled. Three times, and each time, I bled a little. But Pepe, he was not like you at all.”

“Who is he?”

She drew away and pinched my nose. “Now, you know enough and I have been truthful. Let us not talk like this anymore.” She kissed me once more, and we would have lingered but for an infernal rapping on the door below.

In fright, she bolted up, put on her clothes, and ran downstairs. I took time putting on my clothes but did not go down. I lay in my cot, turning over in my mind what she had said and was sad and yet a little comforted. Lucy had begun to be honest with me.

It had been my uncle at the door, and his voice was angry although I could not make out what he was angry about, and Lucy was trying to tell him something, but he had rushed up the stairs, slammed the door, then, after a while, rushed out again.

I went down wondering what it was all about. “He seemed very angry,” I said. Lucy was preparing the evening meal and dusk had come. Soon, the Lucena Express would thunder by.

“He forgot an important paper, I think,” Lucy said. “He had been at the door a long time and we did not hear him.”

“I hope he did not suspect you were upstairs with me.”

Lucy tweaked my nose. Uncle Bert did not stay long at the door, even the slightest rap on it could be heard in the house, and I wondered what it really was that had made him angry at Lucy.

* Po-po: Tease.

† Kuya: Eldest brother.

‡ Lutong macao: A manipulated outcome or result.

Remember the Oppressor

Kuya Nick was in his green Mercedes, apparently waiting for me. He was bright as a lightbulb as I emerged from the alley, and he beckoned to me to take the seat beside him. I demurred but he was insistent. “I will take you to school,” he said. “It is on my way anyway.”

It would be my first ride in a Mercedes and I would be hypocritical to let the opportunity pass. Besides, there was also the promise of a job. The engine purred quietly to a start and we headed toward Dimasalang. “How is my toro this morning?” he asked, nudging me with his elbow.

“All right,” I said. A protracted silence. He was not just giving me a lift; he had something to say. “Are your classes this morning really all that important? I am about to give you a job in the afternoons if you want it. Let us go somewhere we can talk.”

Of course, I wanted it! Me, with a job at last, me with something to add to my little spending money, money that was almost gone. He stepped on the gas, and we sped toward Dimasalang, Quiapo — to the boulevard, to one of the coffee shops there.

I was not hungry but he ordered a hamburger and a cup of coffee for me anyway. The shop was almost empty and we had a corner to ourselves.

He was no longer jovial; his face was serious, with a hint of brutal coldness. He folded his hands on the table, the morning sun glinting on his diamond ring, on his polished nails. “I will speak to you frankly,” he said, “and you are free to reject what I offer. But you are not free to talk about it to others. If you do, God have pity on you because you will not live long if I find out. Is that clear, Pepe?”

Goose pimples pricked my skin. “What do you want me to do?”

“First,” he said, toying with his cup, “I want you to make deliveries on the appointed time, at the exact place. And no mistakes. If you cannot make it or if no one shows up, report to the same place in thirty minutes, on the dot, and after that, if no one shows up, then leave.”

“What am I going to deliver?”

“Drugs,” he said simply.

I had lost all appetite; the hamburger became tasteless mush in my mouth and rocks started forming in my throat.

“Speed?”

For the first time, a smile crossed his corpulent face. He shook his head. “That’s for children. No, the real thing. Heroin.”

My anxiety must have been etched all over my face.

“Afraid?”

I nodded.

“I am not surprised,” he said, touching my hand briefly. “They are all afraid in the beginning. But it is not really all that dangerous. You don’t have to worry about the police. I take care of them. It is the customers you have to worry about. But you will learn quickly. And besides, just think, it’s big money, you will get ten percent of all the deliveries. Easily two hundred pesos in a week. And you will make only a few deliveries in a day. And not every day. It all depends, of course, if you can bring in new clients — but not from your school. They don’t have money in Recto. That is why I said you should go to Ateneo or La Salle. That’s where the money is. All those spoiled brats. And if they don’t have it, they will give you their mothers’ jewels, or their fathers’ watches, anything they can lay their hands on. They live in Pobres Park, in those fancy places.”

Two hundred pesos a week, about a thousand a month. Who cares for the Brotherhood?

“Kuya,” I asked, breathing easier, “why did you pick this day? Why all of a sudden?”

Again, the fleeting smile. “You are the best candidate. You live close to my wife.” I had to get used to his calling his mistress his wife, and I wondered how many women he had. “Communication would be no problem. The truth is”—he lowered his voice—“the one you are replacing got too ambitious. I think he was trying to blackmail one of his customers. He was killed yesterday. His body was taken probably in a car and abandoned in a field in Marikina. And all his stuff was stolen.”

Could that happen to me? The unspoken question was answered immediately.

“Even though they are addicted, one must not deal too harshly with them. Sometimes, when they don’t have the ready cash, it may be necessary to give it to them, but be sure to collect it at the following meeting. They always come through because they know that if they don’t they will not be given another chance.”

He could see the indecision in my face. I was going to be a pusher — that was farthest from my aspirations. I may have stolen and lied, and I may have been plastic to my mother, but now I would be putting my neck on the block.

“Try it for one week — just one week. And if you don’t like it, then stop. And no hard feelings. But no talking — that is very clear, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

Time was important and I had no watch. We stood up, got into the car, and drove to Makati. At the first jewelry shop he bought me my first Seiko.

I did not go to school that morning, but spent time studying the code, the hazy description of each customer I was to meet. Kuya Nick had seen them from a distance, he knew where they lived, how they could be contacted, and he had a long list. He must have had in his employ at least ten pushers.

At exactly one that afternoon I walked hesitantly to a red Volkswagen 1500 parked beside the Rizal Theater. The young man inside, about eighteen, thin, with glassy eyes, was startled when I approached him. He was about to start the engine and leave when I said that Joe — that was the old pusher — would not be servicing him anymore. I gave him the numbered envelope, which he immediately recognized. He opened it, took the small packet out, and sniffed its contents; a benign smile spread over his face. He gave me an envelope in return. I opened it in his presence, expecting two hundred pesos as Kuya Nick said. I was wrong. Joe had been upping the price — it was three hundred — and I had a hundred pesos more for myself.

In a moment he was gone. I had two hours to waste before the next delivery at the supermarket. I had become hungry so I went to the Japanese restaurant across the shimmering expanse of parked cars. I had never been to a place like this, but now I had a hundred pesos and could afford it. It was almost two, but there were still people eating. I had read about Japanese cooking, the subtle taste of raw fish, seaweeds, and all that. It was fashionable for young people to be in jeans, in faded T-shirts as I was, and though I felt uncomfortable in these strange and elegant surroundings, it was the experience I wanted. “Raw fish,” I told the kimono-clad waitress. “Then sukiyaki.”

“And what would you like to drink, sir?”

“Sake,” I said.

She brought the sake first and it was a bit warm like I read it would be, then the raw fish. It was then that she knew it was my first time in a Japanese restaurant, for I did not know the chopsticks were joined and she parted them for me while I watched with fascination.

If she had any doubt about my capacity to pay, it disappeared when I brought out the wad of bills from the boy in the Volks. Fifty-six pesos for a small dish of raw fish, squid, and sea urchin insides, sukiyaki cooked before me, and a tiny bottle of sake, but it was worth the adventure. This bastard from Cabugawan living it up at his first opportunity in this precinct of the rich. I would tell the Brotherhood not to tear down the walls of Pobres Park; we should take over the Park instead.

At three on the dot I was in the supermarket’s book section, browsing over the cookbooks and paperbacks, then this girl came in not a minute late, the yellow scarf on her neck the recognition sign. She went to the magazines; there was no one close by, so I walked over and said softly, “Tessa, the two envelopes are here.” She turned to me, and again the look of surprise, of fright, and she turned aside as if she had not heard. Again, I had to tell her. “Joe is not coming; I have taken over.”

It was then that she turned to me, her face sunny as a flower, and she shoved the two envelopes immediately into her bag and handed me an envelope. She did not tarry; when she went out I followed her at a distance. Below the marquee, she waited briefly. Soon, a Mercedes with a uniformed driver drew up. As she went in, I could see that her legs were shapely.

My last delivery was at six at the Intercon; she sat in one of the sofas near the bar — a forlorn, emaciated creature in her late teens. She wore a series of colored bangles, the recognition sign, and I passed her once on my way to the men’s room, then I hurried back, afraid that she might have gone after the appointed time. I sat opposite her. She glanced at me and watched with interest as I brought out the envelope from the folder. No one was looking, so I bent forward, “Joe is not coming, Mary. I am taking his place.”

No emotion rippled on her face, no recognition lighted her eyes; she opened her notebook, threw the envelope at me, then took what I gave. I had expected her to leave, but she just sat there, looking straight ahead as if I did not exist. I felt so uncomfortable, I left after a while.

Five deliveries in one day, all within the Makati area. Inside the toilet, I counted what I had legitimately made: a hundred twenty pesos. And Joe’s take which was now mine was six hundred pesos! Some poor clerk slaved for two months to earn that much and here I was raking it in in one afternoon. I could cry at the irony of it all.

Outside, I flagged a taxi. It was already dark when I got to Antipolo. The door of the apartment of Kuya Nick’s mistress was open and she was there, waiting. She had been instructed, and though we had never talked before, now it was as if we were old friends. After all, she had seen me, and perhaps appreciated me more than Lucy did.

“Please come in,” she said. I handed her the envelope with the money and she gave me a larger one for my deliveries the following day. She closed the door.

“We are alone,” she said. The house was shadowy, but she did not switch on any of the lamps. In the soft dark I could see the mounds of her breasts thrusting through her simple sack dress, the full lips, the eyes shining like jewels. “My maid,” she went on, “she went to see her sister, but will be back soon.”

I did not want to poach on another man’s domain; I had the envelope for the following day and I turned to leave.

“Wouldn’t you like something to drink, a beer maybe?” It was an unmistakable invitation. I held her close — so close I could feel the mound pressed against my thigh. “This is what I want,” I said.

I had expected her to resist, but she did not. She did not put her arms around me as I kissed her, and her lips were cool.

“Please,” she said. “There will be plenty of time. Not here … I don’t want to … not here. You understand.”

“When?” I asked impatiently.

In a whisper, “I’m not prepared.”

“When?”

“I can go to three places: my beauty parlor, my dressmaker, and church. On Friday,” she was saying softly. “On Friday, in the morning, we can meet there, or any place …” She started to kiss me but stopped abruptly.

“I must control myself,” she said. I kissed her again, and she let me plumb the crevices of her mouth.

We walked to the door, and she unlatched it slowly. There was no one outside, and I knocked immediately on ours.

I could not sleep that night thinking of the woman next door, of Friday and its allure and promise. And the money in my folder — how would I explain it? I even had to hide the watch that Kuya Nick bought me. Who was the fool who said one can hide wealth but not poverty? He did not know of my predicament. I had several hundred pesos for the first time in my life and I did not know where to put them; not in my old canvas bag, which had no key, not in my folders. Tomorrow I would go to a bank, open a savings account, and hide the bankbook. It would never be the same again now that I knew what it was like to have money, to be able to buy anything I wanted or to eat anywhere in this wide, wonderful city.

I woke up with a start; Lucy was in my room with my freshly ironed clothes, which she gingerly placed in the old cabinet that my father used. As we went through the morning ritual, she was unusually coy. “You did not tell me what you did the whole day yesterday. I only overheard you telling your uncle about a job. What is it?”

“Nothing for sure, Lucy,” I said. “I was just interviewed. I went to Makati, to the big companies. Even just a janitor if they will take me. But I don’t know any skill — except this,” I said, pumping.

“You are so good,” she said, arching her back.

Slowly, we savored every movement and, as usual, I was late for school.

In the jeepney to Quiapo I wondered how Friday — two days away — would be, how Mila would take me. It was one of those humid mornings when the rains had lifted and the sun stole out, drenching the sidewalks and the sweating people as they jostled about in the plaza, the asshole of Manila. It was much worse underneath, in the cavernous underpass, the tile floor now blotched with dirt, the lightbulbs konked out, the stench of the broken urinals, but still people came to Quiapo, whorled up from the depths, borne out of despair, for here there was light and hope, and they knelt in prayer or wobbled to the altar on their knees, repeating the rosary, invoking the spirit, praying for good fortune and good health and all the handsome rewards that befell those who believed.

For me it was not belief; it was something deeper, inexplicable, recondite as sin. I entered the church and thanked them up there for the goodies that had fallen my way and for what was yet to come; then, having done my duty, I went back across the burning asphalt, to the bank and made my first deposit.

It was past eleven when I got to school. I had just one more class and when it was over, Toto was at the door. “Now,” I said, “I can treat you to siopao and mami.”

He asked if I had become a call boy and I said, “No, the money from my mother arrived.”

Then, “Where were you yesterday?”

I did not want to lie, but how could I tell Augusto that I had become a pusher? That in a single and uneventful afternoon I had earned more than six hundred pesos? Yet I suffered no twinge of guilt about the money — it came from those rich young punks across the river, they had trunkfuls of it and they did nothing to earn it. If they went straight to perdition I would not have shed one solitary tear.

I thought quickly. “I am terribly ashamed, Toto. My mother, you know she slaves for me. And my auntie Bettina, too.” I was speaking the truth, at least. “I went out the whole day looking for a job, in Makati, after reading the ads, in government offices—”

“You think it is difficult, you don’t know anything. Excuse me, Pepe. But you cannot type, you cannot take shorthand, you know no accounting. And there are thousands of filing clerks, janitors, messengers. Maybe, in a newspaper office you have a chance. But even there …”

We had reached our cafe and we joined the line. The usual siopao espesyal. We went to the second floor. As we started to eat, he noticed the watch, which I had put on when I left the house. “Hey, that is an expensive Seiko. I know the style.”

Quickly again: “My auntie … it is a gift. Her salary for a month, or even more, and she buys a watch for me. Do you understand why I feel so guilty?”

He nodded and appeared thoughtful. “I hope you can come with me to Tondo,” he said after a while. “Father Jess knows some important people. He may be able to give you a few names and you can go to them.”

I thanked him, but said that I would first try it my way.

I did not go home for lunch; I had only two deliveries that day and the package also included my deliveries for the next three days. Kuya Nick was efficient and methodical, and like he said, if there were extra orders, all I had to do was put them down in writing in the envelope that I gave to Mila. However, the weekly supplies that I had already delivered seemed enough. Nor did my customers increase their requirements as Kuya Nick said they were bound to within a month. It was during the first few months that the increase becomes very marked, then it tapers off and becomes steady — and that was when the business really got booming. The problem was to keep the old customers regularly supplied and happy. As long as the stuff comes, they don’t make trouble.

I was in blue jeans and a brown T-shirt, the brown envelope and my books under my arm. I tarried before the appointed time at the entrance of the supermarket again, and though it was not raining, she brought the red parasol by which I would recognize her. She was a fair-skinned mestiza with a sculpted nose, dimples, and black eyebrows. She wore faded jeans and a cheap katsa^* blouse. She went straight to the dry goods section and I followed her there. I turned around once more and there being so few people at this time, I said, “Doris—”

She turned tentatively to me and smiled; her clean, even teeth could have been used for a toothpaste ad. “Yes?”

“Joe is not making deliveries anymore,” I said. “I am taking his place.”

Her face grew taut, relaxed, then the surprise: “I hope you have time … why don’t we go somewhere for a cup of coffee or something?”

“Something,” I said.

She smiled brightly.

We walked out of the cash counter and found a corner table in the supermarket cafeteria. I brought out the numbered envelope, and she slipped a bundle of bills under the table to me. I did not bother counting it; I stuffed it into my pocket. The next delivery was at four, and I had time.

I asked her what she wanted, but she had just had lunch; a cup of coffee would do. I ordered a hamburger. She wanted to talk and I was eager to listen. Then I remembered what Kuya Nick had told me, that I was not to fraternize with my customers for I may be telling them things I shouldn’t, but more than that, they might find out ways by which they could put one over on me. Remember, Kuya Nick had said, they are dependent on their pushers, whom they hate. It is a loathsome but necessary relationship. But it was too late now, she was just too pretty to be ignored, and I was just, as Toto had said, too much of an extrovert, and a Sagittarian, to keep away from people even though they might spell danger or doom.

“What is your name?”

“Toto,” I said.

“I see that you are a student.”

I had no special bookcover and my notebooks were not bought from the university store. She did not know, and she was trying to find out, where I was studying. “Not in the school where your friends go,” I said.

“You are evasive,” she quickly got the point.

“Is Doris your real name?”

She nodded. Then, the other surprise. “Do not get me wrong. I don’t use it. It’s for my friend. I would like to help her stop, but I don’t know how I can make her. It is not the money. She has lots of it. But she has been at it for six months now, and she is growing thinner.”

“Then why are you giving her this?”

She was quiet for a moment. “Because I understand,” she said finally. “I tried it once, twice, and liked it, but I had more self-control.”

“You can go to a hospital, or this foundation I have heard about,” I suggested.

“Her parents would die of shock. They wouldn’t believe that their daughter — and I, a pusher. I used to accompany her when she got the stuff from Joe. But she hated him.” She smiled at me again. “You are not repulsive at all. How did you get started on this?”

“Money,” I said simply.

“That’s three hundred fifty I gave you. How much is yours?”

“Only thirty-five,” I lied, realizing I had made more again. “And I am not rich like you and your friends.” I thrust at her my battered, brown leather shoes. “That’s the only pair I have.”

Her face was downcast. She sipped her coffee and her hand trembled. Her arms bore no telltale injection marks. She had none of the glassy, sleepy look of the boy in the Volks, the girl at the Intercon.

“You are so unlike Joe,” she said. “Joe is always trying to increase the price, saying it is more and more difficult to get the stuff. The supplier in Cavite, that was what he said, was demanding more and more, too. Is it true?”

“I am new,” I said. “I don’t know many things. I just follow instructions.”

“Where is Joe?”

I told her. She blanched and her cup almost spilled.

“I am not sorry,” she shook her head. “Will you stay in this job long? You are not afraid? After what has happened?”

“I have no choice,” I said. “Jobs are hard to find and I am not through with college. Besides, I said I would try it for a week.” Bending over to her, I said: “Don’t judge me too harshly. I am not rich like you or your friends, the whole lot of you who have no better use for your money than this. I don’t want this job, knowing what it does to people. But if I did not take it, someone else would. It pays well; something I never dreamed I would get when I was in the province. Maybe I will hang on to it, if my tastes do not interfere, and make a little pile, then I will retire. Ha, that is what every prostitute says, but they all end up old and wrinkled and penniless.”

“You really know,” she said, her eyes crinkling in a smile.

“Of course,” I shot back. “You think wisdom is the monopoly of those who go to exclusive schools?”

She shook her head. “You really have a chip on your shoulder.”

“A block,” I said.

“What is it you really want to do?”

I looked at the intense face, the dimple that had disappeared, the down on her arms. “You are very pretty,” I said.

She blushed. “I asked you a question,” she prodded.

“I would like to eat well,” I said. “I ate at a Japanese restaurant for the first time yesterday. And I do not like to go to school.”

“Same here,” she said.

“But I like campus popularity — and my friends in school.”

“Same here,” she laughed.

We were now both laughing.

“Hey,” I said. “We are both pushers, you know. Except that I get paid and you don’t.” Then, seriously: “You must tell the parents of your friend even if she ends up hating you. And take her to a doctor … only a doctor can help her, and you can, by refusing to give all this to her, by reducing her intake. By talking her into disciplining herself.”

“You will be losing one good customer.”

“I’ll make two new friends.”

“You are no pusher.”

“Not yet, but given time …”

We had sat there for almost an hour. “I enjoyed talking with you,” she said as we stood up.

“The pleasure is mine,” I said leaving a big tip for the waiter. She noticed it. “My—” she shook her head.

“It’s not my money, it’s your friend’s,” I said.

We walked to the door and shook hands. “Next week,” I said.

She turned and walked across the small plaza to the parking lot. She had a mustard-colored Beetle, and as she passed me on her way to the exit, she smiled and waved.

At four, the Medical Center. I sat in the lobby, a few minutes early, but I noticed him at once, a man in his forties, very patrician, with a black leather portfolio on the floor at his feet. He was impeccably dressed in a gray double-knit suit as if he was an executive, which I was sure he was. I walked over to him with the usual, “Joe is not going to make the deliveries anymore.” He quickly stood up and told me to follow him. He walked fast ahead of me as if he did not want to be seen with me, and I followed him to his car in the parking lot, a huge, black Lincoln. He motioned me inside. It was air-conditioned. We drove out without talking. He was soon driving very fast, and he seemed tense. This was all wrong, but there was no way I could tell him to stop. I had already gotten the envelope out and laid it beside him, saying it was all there, and may I please have the payment? But he grunted angrily, and we sped on. We were on the highway now. I began to panic. Then, at the intersection, at a red light, I tried to open the door so I could rush out, but it wouldn’t budge. He turned to me with that kind of laughter that chills. “Only I can open the doors,” he said. “They are all automatically locked.”

I could break the windows and squirm through. This was one time I should have been armed or known karate.

“I am not going to harm you,” he said softly. “I just want to ask a few questions. You know what happened to Joe? I am sure you suspect. No, I am not a policeman — it is useless going to the police. The sonofabitch was blackmailing me, was upping the price, too.… He had it coming … and you will, too … if you don’t talk.”

There was something frantic about him, and I knew that there was a gun under his jacket, for the bulge showed.

“What do you want to know, sir? You know I am new at the job,” I said. “I just follow instructions.”

“Well, I want to know who your boss is — the top man — because I want more, and no blackmailing, no stories. I have been on this for two years now, and I need it as I need food and air. I will kill if I have to. Or I will have to get it from other sources. Why are you doing this to me? Am I not paying enough? Why do you want my family to know … and my friends? Don’t you know this will destroy me? Each man has his private passion. Can you not understand that?”

He was shaking and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. We were now in Cubao, and he drove toward Marikina. He was no longer talking sense: “You are greedy; you cannot be satisfied. You want everything and only because I have this passion that only you can fill. Why can it not be a simple business transaction? The supply is there, abundant, and so is the money, so why ask for more?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, sir,” I said. His eyes were not on the road and, once or twice, I thought we would crash head-on into trucks.

“Please, sir,” I said, “your driving.”

“Hell,” he said, then laughed. “You only live once.”

His gaunt face was now really wet with perspiration even though the air-conditioning was working. We had reached Katipunan, and to the right was the huge Ateneo compound. He swerved left, his tires screeching, but he was not fast enough — the car crashed over the embankment. He stepped on the brakes in time to avoid hitting the acacia tree by the side of the road. The automatic lock of the car door clicked and I rammed my shoulder against the door. It opened, and to his curses, I jumped out and ran. At the corner, I looked back. He was sitting in his car like a statue.

I boarded the first jeepney that came by — all I wanted was distance from him and from this job.

Kuya Nick answered the number I was to call in an emergency. Yes, he would be in Cubao where I had stopped, in thirty minutes. “Just go to the Chinese restaurant by the Nation Theater and wait.”

When he arrived, we drove together to Katipunan. The car was gone. “It is one of those things,” he said. “I told you there are certain risks. When he asked you to follow him to his car, you should have resisted. Never fraternize. You don’t know them, you did not get them originally—”

I had made up my mind. “Kuya,” I said as we drove back to Manila, “this job is not for me. I am too cowardly for it. I like the money but …”

He was silent.

I had to tell him about Joe. I asked what he was like, how old he was.

“About thirty; small, a little bit on the fat and balding side. He looked unkempt but he was always clean.”

“He was extorting money from them,” I said. We should part as friends, I should go with his trust. “I did not make only so much yesterday,” I said. “Even today, the girl gave me a hundred fifty pesos more. I would like to give it all back to you. And the watch, too.”

Kuya Nick turned to me, a broad smile on his face. “Pepe, that is what I like about you. You can be trusted. No, you can keep them — you earned them. My problem now is to find someone who will do the job tomorrow. If the worst comes, I may have to do it myself.”

I gave him the money and the notebook with the codes and time tables. He placed them on the console beside the gearshift.

“Next semester,” he still tried, “think about La Salle. You really have to work in those schools, not in Recto. Like I said, that is where the money is. And those girls, if they will not give you their mothers’ jewels, you can have all the cunts you want. My toro, you will have the time of your life!”

It was all so appealing, but I had to turn it down.

“Think about it, Pepe,” he repeated as he dropped me off in front of the university.

Professor Hortenso was not in; I had more than a hundred fifty pesos so I decided to see a movie.

It was seven in the evening when I got to the apartment, and Mila’s door was ajar. She sat in the dimly lighted living room, and when I walked in, she bade me put on the latch.

“I was wondering why it took you so long,” she said coyly. And then, as if to reassure me, she said she had sent her maid out to see a movie. There was a lot of time for us before she would return.

But I was not going to be unkind to Kuya Nick; he had, after all, given me a chance and, in his own perverse way, he had practiced some form of ethics. I did not even hold her or kiss her when she stood up and came to me, her breath warm and sweet on my face, her body pressed against mine. “I am sorry,” I said, “but I will not be able to see you on Friday.”

She held my hand to her breast. “Then now,” she whispered. “We have a little time. Nick … we really don’t do it, not even once a month … and I need it so much.”

I pulled away. “They are waiting for me,” I said, “and besides, I was just with him and he may be on his way here, now.”

Her arms dropped. I headed for the door, trembling and angry at myself as I walked out.

* Katsa: Coarse cream-colored fabric, like sacking.

Our Hope Is the People

The following day I enrolled at the International Karate School two blocks down Recto from my university. My decision to take karate was preordained not just by the experience with the psycho but by Lakay Benito of my boyhood, who had taken me on a journey to a subterranean world that imbued those who belonged to it with inexplicable powers. He had taught me an effective oración against unfriendly dogs and I wanted more. He was inclined to pass on to me and to those with whom he felt vibrations the knowledge he had accumulated; he was long past middle age and the comedia he directed and acted in was no longer being shown in our town fiesta. Cheap penicillin, too, had diminished his clientele, and only the gullible or fanatic went to him for his miracle cures. Even in church, he was no longer an imposing presence, as a new priest had taken over and gathered around him young people to “humanize” and make the Church ever present and relevant.

You are on the way to manhood, he said; so it is time for your perseverance and your courage to be tested. It was possible — he said this, his face as somber as if it were Judgment Day — to achieve the kind of power that would make you more agile than the fly, more sensitive than the weed whose leaves fold at the slightest stirring of the breeze, and run faster than a horse. When the banana flowers, just as the heart of the flower dips, there would drop from its tip a jewel that you must be prepared to swallow instantly. You should, therefore, be before the plant, with mouth wide open, your hands clasped behind your back, and once the jewel is in your mouth, let no force take it away. All this would happen in all probability at night and there would be unspeakable and powerful forces that would strangle me and pry my mouth open. This was the hour of judgment and I would either end up as just another weakling or a man possessed with mind and muscle of incredible strength.

I remember my initiation into that secret domain Lakay Benito knew. We had this aritondal species in our backyard that had survived both typhoon and drought. It was a popular native variety, bitter when green but deep yellow and very sweet when ripe, not pulpy and tasteless like those bananas grown in the south for export to Japan. That dry season one of the plants had started to flower. I had waited for the heart to rise then dip, a process that took almost a week. I watched the whole time, wondering how much longer it would take before the heart would drop to point earthward.

On the fifth day I knew that the time had come, and after Mother and Auntie had gone to sleep, I stole down to our backyard and stood breathless beneath the banana plant. It was one of those April nights when not a breeze stirred, yet all around the night was alive with the chirp of crickets, the distant barking of dogs, wisps of talk from the neighbors, and the mooing of carabaos in their corral. Above, the stars studded the black cloudless sky, and I wondered if the jewel that I coveted would be just as bright. I was not afraid, standing there alone, the bananas like a dark canopy before me, while around were the huddled shapes of houses, some still distinct with yellow frames of light; even the earth seemed to heave and listen to the steady pounding of my heart. Vivid imaginings swooped through my mind, my eyes transfixed upon the pointed end of the banana heart above me. How would it be when the jewel finally fell? What powers would it give me? Would I be able to walk a single wire or ascend any wall like a fly? Would I be dexterous enough to pick any pocket without being caught? Standing there, for how long I did not know, my neck had started to cramp. I turned to ease the discomfort and the pain then arched skyward again; it was then that I noticed a glow on the ground and felt the earth breathe; the glow started up the banana trunk, rose slowly, filling the trunk with an eerie light that pulsed slowly up the trunk and then to the heart itself. And I stood beneath it, my feet planted apart, my hands clasped behind me, my mouth wide open waiting for this white and dazzling pearl or jewel or king’s ransom, paused uncertainly at the tip of the heart, to drop into my mouth. I felt it warm and smooth, but hardly had I closed my mouth when I felt huge and hairy arms clasp my neck in a grip so tight I could not breathe, while more slimy hands tried to pry my mouth open. I could smell the damp foulness of age, of decay, warm and final upon my face. I would choke if I did not free myself; if I opened my mouth to scream, however, everything would be lost. No, I must not yield. I must summon all the nerve and bone that this puny body could muster, I must not give up this vaunted treasure. With one final surge, I twisted around to evade those grasping, coiling hands and crashed to the ground.

That was where I woke up, in the chill dawn, the east already amber, the other houses already stirring with the womenfolk who must cook the morning meal. When I looked at the banana heart, indeed, it had already dipped.

I rose and walked to the house hoping that my steps would be light and some unfamiliar strength would suffuse me, but I felt instead cramped and feverish and when I sneezed, I knew that I had caught, not an incredible talisman, but a cold.

The stairway that led to the karate school wound through floors occupied by nondescript law offices and companies that must have survived through sheer tenacity. Past doors tarnished with age and secured with three or four padlocks, I finally got to the top — the karate school — and the beginning of a new wisdom if ever I was to survive in a deformed physical world. So here I was, ready for another kind of school, not just to build my stamina but to discipline my body. My lessons were to be twice a week, but I could come every afternoon if I wanted to for the karatistas liked having people around. Various schools of self-defense had proliferated in the area — tae kwan do, kung fu, and judo — and the competition was very keen. It was eighty pesos a month, plus thirty pesos for my very rough cotton uniform. I was not aiming for a black belt or to smash bricks and planks of wood. I was just interested in self-defense. I did not have a gun, not even a knife. My instructors were all young, and they enjoyed their work, for when they were not teaching they were always practicing. They lived in the school itself to save on rent. Cups they had won from various tournaments adorned the shelves. When I went for my first lesson I was amused at the ritual of bowing to the instructor before the actual exercises started. Rading, who was the best, took me under his wing, although he was available for instruction anytime. He asked where I went to school, and when I told him he said he went there, too, but was just taking a few credits in accounting, for he wanted to be a karatista. He was about twenty-one, slightly taller than I, and his taut frame was all muscle.

I wanted to tell Toto what I did during my disappearances in the afternoons or early evenings, or sometimes in the mornings, but he would not understand. Though he was all talk about violence and revolution, these were mere ideas; I suspect he would not pull the trigger or stick a knife in someone else’s belly when the time came.

There was no day that the name of Father Jess did not obtrude into our conversation; Toto really looked up to the priest. He was the father he never had. And as for a mother, in their kumbento^* was an old woman — Tia Nena, he called her — who was once deranged or had come from the Psychopathic Hospital at Mandaluyong. She did the cooking and the laundry for Father Jess. It was, to my mind, a weird household, set up from driftwood.

As the election for the Student Council was soon, Toto made plans for my candidacy. I was pestered by doubts. Though I was popular in my own class and in the other sections where I was enrolled, I did not have a university following. Furthermore, I did not want to spend my money on handbills or for those simple posters made from newspapers that we would plaster on walls and bulletin boards. That money would be a hedge for something more urgent.

“I will ask Father Jess for money,” Toto assured me. “And the Brotherhood will help. You must not forget that.”

I finally got to meet him. We went to San Beda where he was going to address the senior class in social studies and history. Just as he started with the usual greetings, the platitudes, we took seats in the empty front-row seats because I wanted to hear what this minor god said. Toto was too shy to walk down the aisle and sit there with all the students, teachers, and priests on the stage looking at us late-comers, but I did not care — the Sagittarius in me again — so he followed me reluctantly.

Father Jess glanced at us, then went on. He was really huge, with thick bristly hair, thick lips, wide forehead, a jutting jaw, and eyes crinkled into two slits. He could have been an overfed Japanese or Chinese were it not for his dark complexion. He was not in a soutane, but instead wore denims and sandals, which I learned from him afterward were JC boots (Jesus Christ boots), and as a concession perhaps to his vocation, he had a gray close-necked jacket, a tiny silver cross on the collar.

There were more than three hundred in the auditorium — the entire senior class — and the lecture was one of six that the students would receive every week as part of their final orientation course. The air-conditioned hall was chilly, for it was not even half full. Father Jess had finished with the niceties and now his tone turned serious. Even without the loudspeaker, he could carry on like any bomba politician. His vocabulary was without bombast, earthy English spiced with Tagalog that had a very strong Visayan accent. Benedictine seminarians in white cassocks were in the front rows, and his first remarks were addressed to them. He spoke about the change that had come to the Church — a change that had been a long time in coming. He dredged up the encyclicals that were not believed in, about rituals that had become meaningless because they were not part of our lives. And finally, he spoke about the new role of priests: going to the masses, the poor, to prepare them for the liberation that was sanctioned by Christ.

Cliché stuff.

Then he spoke of the elite schools, how they had produced graduates who became the Establishment and how it might be necessary in the future to close these schools, for they were only perpetuating a decadent elite and the corruption in society.

This raised some questioning looks from the priests behind him on the stage.

The priest smiled at the bomba he had tossed. “I will tell you about this Establishment to which you — and I — belong,” he said. “It is a word so often used, it has lost its meaning. But it is real, like syphilis. We have it and, like syphilis, we don’t know it. We have to know it first before we can cure ourselves.”

Fuck yourselves, I thought, but listened intently just the same. We had a neighbor in Cabugawan who worked in the railroad station; he had gone to the whorehouse near the rice mill and the day after he could not urinate except in terrible pain. And later there were sores all over his body. They said that not only did he have the sickness given by a woman, but the worst case one could get. He had to go somewhere for treatment, both he and his wife, whom he had also infected.

Father Jess described how big men made the laws, how these laws enriched them, how poverty became the way of life of the masses because they were made poor on purpose. And the poor — he lashed at us — we did not know any better, we did not organize, we did not define our purpose and mark our enemies so we would know whom to fight if only so we could get what was ours by right because it was we who worked the land, the factories.

He may have been telling something new to the students, but not to me. Though I had scant knowledge of what went on in Congress or the life that throbbed in Pobres Park and in other places where the rich slop it up, I always knew that it was the strong, the powerful who ruled, who drank the sweet juice of life. I could see that in the children of the landlords, who were my classmates in grade school, who then went to Manila for high school; how the rich women of the town always haggled with Mother no matter how hard she worked. Years bent before that damn machine and what had she to show for it? Not a big house, not jewels, just me going to Manila, to listen to this drivel.

I did not resent Father Jess, though. I was just sad that he could narrate these so clearly, so neatly. Cabugawan was in my mind, and leaving it, though it had not seemed that way then, was a painful wrenching away. I saw myself playing again in the dirt road that was never widened or asphalted. How would Cabugawan look in this year’s rainy season? That dirt road would be churned by carabaos as they went to the fields beyond. The houses would be lashed by winds, their cogon roofs disheveled, their buri walls rotting and dripping; the bananas all tattered. And after the rains, the dry season — in April the wind lifted our kites, brought music to the bamboos as they bent, sounds I would not hear, sights I would not see. And I left them so I could be like the wind, meandering where it pleased.

The applause brought me back. It was loud and long, as if the auditorium was full, as if they had just heard the most exhortatory of speeches. Toto had this dazed, rapt look and he was applauding madly, too. Reluctantly I started to clap. There were questions, a whole hour for them, and I thought they would never stop. I could have easily disposed of the questions with words like “shit,” or “drop dead,” and when I could not stand the aridity of the questioning anymore I stood up with Toto hissing under his breath about how impolite I was.

“We came to listen to the speech, not to those questions,” I said.

We waited for Father Jess outside. It was dusk and the girls from Holy Spirit and Centro were filing out; they were in white-and-pink uniforms that hid their legs and obscured their good-looks. A short time later Father Jess appeared: “Hoy, you should have waited inside. There was merienda — pancit and sandwiches.”

Toto introduced me. Father Jess was six feet tall, as swarthy as Idi Amin, and his grip was very tight.

“He tells me you are a very good politician,” Father Jess said affably.

“I don’t like being one, Father.”

“What do you want to be then?”

“I’d like to be the country’s karate champion,” I smiled.

He gave my arm a playful chop. “You should visit us in the barrio. Where do you come from?”

I told him.

“I know the place,” he said. “That is in eastern Pangasinan, isn’t it? You know, they have a lot of faith healers there. And there was an uprising once and some tenants were killed. Are the Colorums still strong?”

It quickly brought to mind my grandfather, who had gone to jail for that uprising. “No, the Colorums are not there anymore,” I said. “But the landlords still are.”

We walked to the corner where they boarded a jeepney. I decided to walk to Quiapo. Even in that crowded evening, in that oozing human flood which Recto’s sidewalks become at this time of day, I was alone and back in Cabugawan again, stoking long-dead memories and giving shape to limpid ghosts of people I never saw, whose names we utter in reverence commingled with shame — grandfather, granduncle, and who else from our village — all the brave and angry men who marched into town a long time ago, burned the municipio and the Rich Man’s house, then killed him, his wife, and children. The Colorums are gone, but the landlords are still with us, leeches beyond satiety. But the landlords are no longer the mestizos of yesteryear — imperious, fair-skinned, and loud of speech. Now they were brown like us, their origins not from Spain but from the village, farmers’ children who had gone to school to be lawyers, had grown fat with the spoils of the land, the children of farmers who had forgotten what their fathers were and therefore were no different from the landlords they had replaced.

Around me, the milling mass of students, puny people loaded with speed dreams, here in Recto to slave for their diplomas from the mills so they could get jobs and eat three times a day. Nothing edifying, nothing lofty. And who knows, some day they would be landlords, too. But to think about the future now was to daydream. We were concerned with jeepney fare, mami and siopao, an occasional movie, clothes. Many of my classmates did not even wear shoes but cheap Japanese rubber slippers. Their blemished skins, their thin bodies showed only too well how badly undernourished they were.

I would have continued in Kuya Nick’s employ. But the niggardly pleasures as I knew them, being able to see, feel, and appreciate the whorl and whirl around me could end in a job such as Kuya Nick’s. I loved being alive, being here in Recto.

I survey the rubble of my past, the excesses I have committed without even really knowing why, and Mother comes to mind again and a sharp pang of regret, of sorrow, courses through me.

What is it that I really want? Certainly not to live in Cabugawan, although I miss the friends with whom I swam the flooded irrigation ditches and caught the silver fish in the shallows; the schoolhouse whose wooden floors I had scrubbed, and those high school dances when I held them close — Letty, whose breasts were small, whose thighs were silky; Marie, whom I often kissed when the boys, on purpose, switched off the lights. All the wonderful confections that are kept stored in the mind to tide one over when there are no coins jingling in the pocket, when the stomach is a yawning pit that contains nothing, none of the rice cakes that Auntie Bettina made, and those things Mother saved, a piece of fried pork, bread with margarine.

What is it that I really wanted? The whole world but no sweating for it, opportunities for which all I would have to do is to appraise them and refuse them. But it was not that way, it would never be that way. I’m walking on a one-way street to perdition.

Excitement, affluence — I craved these. I’ve spent time in thought but not for any ennobling cause, least of all my own betterment. So here I am by myself, alone. I could be blown down by one chill wind, and it is perhaps for the best then that I sleep through it all, the season of thunder and lightning. I had listened to an old lullaby that shut my eyes and dulled my brain, for this, too, was what I wanted: to be lulled into forgetting. But how can I forget that young bird I had picked up, fallen from its nest in the buri palm, unable to fly because it was too young?

I have asked myself how far I should go, what it is that should make me happy, urge me on, and always it has been a full stomach, a sound sleep. Now, I am not too sure anymore of these desires, though they still command my waking hours. All I know is that there should be wings on my feet and light in my mind where once all was darkness and mustiness and age.

What have I really done with my years? I am older than almost all of my classmates. Perhaps I have held on foolishly to the bliss of youth, that there need be no justification for this breathing. Yet in the depths of me I had been perhaps in love with death, not life, because I have not cared for anyone but myself and the self dies as surely as flesh rots, and death, after all, is the boundary. And this selfish, unthinking self had failed to give, not even to Mother and Auntie Bettina, a little of itself.

I would like now to be different?

Will I be permitted this? Will I be strong? I know it will be difficult, for it is the strong who write the laws, make the prisons. Will I be like them? Will I also feed the weak with lies, just as I fed the hogs in Cabugawan with mush so they would fatten easily?

I crossed the underpass to Quezon and headed for Plaza Miranda. My stomach was beginning to churn and I was sorry we had not waited for Father Jess in the auditorium so we could have eaten. The thought of hurrying back to Lucy’s dinengdeng was depressing. It was too late now for the other pleasure, for my aunt and uncle would already be home and Lucy absolutely, resolutely refused once they were there. One night I had gone down on the pretext of going to the toilet, but had detoured to her cot under the stairs. She woke up, and when she realized it was me who was kissing her, she hit me in the stomach so hard I almost screamed. Then she whispered sweetly, softly: “Pepe, they are here.”

I paused before a crummy noodle restaurant, then went in. Nothing like a bowl of steaming noodles. These tasted soapy and the siopao espesyal, God knows what meats were in it. When I was through, I decided on a double feature, a war picture and a bomba—at Life.

I really like movies; I even kept a listing of the films I had seen since I got to Manila and rated them. I was partial to science fiction. They propelled me into another world, real in the mind, plausible to reckon with.

It was drizzling when I got out, that soft, malevolent rain that one expects to pass but instead goes on interminably. There were a few jeepneys and I could easily clamber into one, but I decided to walk home. Auntie Bettina would be coming soon; she said she would be in Manila in a month, but two months now had gone by.

I should not be walking this late; there were robberies and people did not bother reporting them to the police anymore. I knew a little karate and felt a bit safe; besides, what could they possibly extort from a student like me, walking in the rain perhaps to save jeepney fare? When I got to Recto, however, as if by some heavenly signal, the rain abruptly stopped. It was not a long walk to Dimasalang and Antipolo, and I recalled Mother telling me that she and Father walked this distance when they were students to save on jeepney fare.

It all came to me, hazy and cob webbed like some disordered dream, his visit to Cabugawan, the few things he had written that I had read, fragments of ideas, and through it all, I could not quite understand why Mother kept it away from me, this one truth that would have meant so much, particularly when I was young and would be asked who my father was. It became clearer now, Auntie Bettina and Mother, they both wanted me to be like him, a university professor maybe, so that I could also marry properly — an heiress perhaps.

I could do that, of course, look for a rich girl with a face like a hot cake, with pimples as big as tomatoes, but girls like her were not in Recto; they were in the exclusive colleges, and it would never be my luck or inclination to meet any of them because I considered them beyond my reach.

I was surprised when I arrived in Antipolo to find Lucy waiting in the unlighted sala; after a first light knock so Tia Betty and Tio Bert would not waken she was there and whispering, “Pepe, is that you?”

In the darkness, I sought her, but she drew away and asked if I had eaten, and curiously, I was hungry again. She switched on the light; there was food on the table; it was cold, but I did not mind. The abominable vegetable stew that we were fated to eat every day tasted unusually good. She hovered by asking where I had been, what kept me so late, and I beckoned her to come close and when she did, thinking perhaps that I would whisper to her, I fondled her thighs instead. She let me, but her hand went quickly to my side and her pinch was a shock of sharp pain.

She would not let me wash the dishes; she would do it in the morning. I tried to kiss her good night but she eluded me, shaking her head and whispering, “I told you … I told you …,” so I went up the stairs on bare feet; my only pair of shoes were wet and I wondered if they would be dry in the morning.

I was awakened by happy voices downstairs and I recognized the voice of Auntie Bettina. I rushed down in my shorts. When she saw me, she let go of the bundle she was holding, rushed to me, and kissed me. “Now, Pepe, help me with these—” She had brought with her those infernal vegetables, camote tops, eggplants, and bitter melons, a bottle of salted fish, coconut candy, half a sack of rice, mudfish squirming in a buri bag, and, at the bottom, snails — the small kind that I used to gather in the irrigation ditches and in the flooded fields. Tia Betty and Tio Bert were full of admonition: “Bettina, you should not have brought all these … and the taxi fare from the station … I hope you found a taxi with an honest meter. Bettina, we can get all these here, and you know, it may even be cheaper.”

They had to rush off to their jobs and Auntie Bettina, too, had to go to the Department of Education to follow up on her raise, which had not come for eight years. But I did not have to hurry, and when Lucy had put away everything and even roasted a mudfish, we were all by ourselves again, alive to the promise that had not been fulfilled the evening before.

My first class was World Lit, and when I got there Toto said Professor Hortenso wanted to see me. It was very important. I must not fail to see him before the end of the morning period.

I did not have to go to the Faculty Room after World Lit; Professor Hortenso was waiting for us at the door as we filed out. I had Philippine History next, but he said my teacher would not mind if I was ten minutes late. We went to a corner where the boisterous shuffling of students was muted. He asked if I had ever thought of becoming a writer like my uncle.

“Farthest thing from my thoughts, sir,” I said.

“You can start becoming one then. It is not difficult. What is important is for you to arrange your ideas properly, logically. Then just put them down. Toto told me that you can write.”

I looked at him, puzzled.

“Toto said that your report on Manuel Arguilla was held up as a good example of literary criticism by your teacher.”

I did not realize Toto had taken such an interest in me. “Pepe,” Professor Hortenso was saying, “I am the moderator of the student paper. I am also one of the three judges. The examination will be held at seven in the evening, at the small auditorium. There will be about a hundred participants, maybe more. Take it. It could mean a minor post … and it will make you stand out in school. A scholarship, too. And most important, it would mean a little pocket money.”

Money. Now I could explain my watch, my bankbook even.

I did not go home for lunch. At noon when I told him I’d go home, Toto said I should stay in school and do some research in the library on newspapering so I would be ready for the exam. I had always been honest with him and when he asked why I did not want to stay, I said simply I had to go home to eat. Again, he treated me to lunch and despite my protests shoved a five-peso bill into my pocket. “Return it when you get your pay,” he said.

The exam that afternoon was not difficult, mostly commonsense stuff about headlines, what to present in news stories, things that one should know by instinct after a casual perusal of any newspaper. The essay-writing part was even easier — a nonsense piece about the role of youth in a changing society. I was perhaps the first to finish, but even so, it was already past nine when I got home.

Auntie Bettina and Lucy were watching Nora Aunor on TV when I arrived. Lucy set the table for me and though I had eaten at six I was hungry. What a wonderful change — vegetable stew with mudfish and the snails cooked in coconut milk. While I gorged Auntie Bettina plied me with questions; she was disappointed that I was not in the state university, but I told her that, with my low grades, to aspire for that was futile. She was happy with just the thought that I was going to school. And Cabugawan and Mother? I was anxious to know about her health, for she never mentioned it in her letters though I always asked. She was all right, she was sewing and saving, and I should not worry because Auntie Bettina was there to look after her.

I told her about my taking the editorial exams and this pleased her. I said that I would sleep on the sofa downstairs, and she could take my bed, but no, she would have none of that. As a compromise, she agreed to take my bed — she would be in Manila for a couple of days — and I could sleep on the floor beside her.

With the raucous sounds of Antipolo finally stilled, I decided to ask her. “Every time I look out of that window, Auntie, I see the spot where Father was killed. Why did you not tell me? Why did Mother not tell me?”

She stirred, then sat on the edge of the bed; her face, in the soft light, was troubled. She bit her lip and when she finally spoke, she was almost pleading. “You have to forgive and forget many things, Pepe. So, they told you — we should have expected it. But your mama and I— We had quite forgotten that they knew. In the beginning, your mother wanted to tell you, but so many things held her back. He was always in our minds, Pepe. I remember how you used to ask me, but when you grew older, you stopped. And remember how I used to tell you, you have a good head? Just like your father. And you look so much like him!”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I do not know,” she said. “When you were small, Manang and I— We believed it was best that you did not know. They were first cousins, you know, and that was not good. Your uncle being your father. Do you understand, Pepe?”

“I don’t,” I said, although it did not matter anymore. “They do it all the time now. It would not have made any difference.”

“Then your father got married,” Tia Bettina said. “It was not your mother’s fault, or his. He did not know you were born. Your mother— She wanted his marriage to succeed. His wife was very wealthy. And someday, when you are through with college, I hope you will marry just as well.”

So this was the purpose of my education: to marry well. It was all so clear and simple.

“Why was I not told?” I insisted.

“Does it matter now? What is important for you to remember is that your mother did everything to make life easy for you, to provide for you, and that she did it alone.”

She did not have to tell me this, and I was humbled by it. “Stay in my place, Auntie, just one moment.”

She was silent. I had to know so I asked again: “Whose fault was it? What did Mother do wrong?”

She answered quickly, “Your mother is an honorable woman. Be proud of her. I do not know anyone else who would do what she did, not just with honor but with pride. So you see us quarreling sometimes, but that is just between sisters. I know what she has done, not just for you but also for your father. She would rather suffer.”

“Why didn’t he come and see her? When he visited us long ago, did he know? Why didn’t he take care of her? And if Mother did no wrong, then it was he. It was he!”

She shushed me; I would wake up my relatives. She got off the bed and sat beside me. “Pepe,” she said, “it was not his fault either. No one else’s. They were not fated from the beginning. You will grow older and you will understand. He was a good man; do not hate him.”

I shook my head. “Whatever you say cannot change my feelings toward him.”

“He tried,” she said. “I know. But he died.”

“He was a liar,” I said. “His book — all those principles … he could not even face the simplest responsibility. How could he have written such things?”

“Believe me, Pepe,” she was now distraught. “He was the best Gabugawan could produce. He was good, honest. You should be proud of him, now that you know.”

“I will always remember him in shame,” I said.

She went back to bed after patting me on the shoulder. A baggage train thundered by, throwing its light on the walls, shaking the house. From down the alley, a balut vendor called out, then the faulty silence of Antipolo once more.

I could not sleep; questions crowded my mind. “Auntie?”

She stirred. “Yes, Pepe?”

“How did it start?”

“Your mother and he— They were both here, in this house, but they knew each other in Cabugawan.”

“What was he like? His picture in his book …”

“He was good-looking,” her voice quiet with remembering. “And he was very good in school. A full scholar. That was how he managed to study in the United States. The best university there. He also went to Spain — and yes, he spoke Spanish. Imagine someone in our family speaking Spanish! He looked just like— Look in the mirror. Same eyes, same wide brow. And he also read a lot.”

“I don’t want to be a teacher,” I said.

“Not like me, but like him.”

“I will not marry into a rich family.”

“It is too early to tell,” she said, smiling.

“And I am sure I will not dishonor any girl or bring into this world an illegitimate child.”

The July night was cool, frogs announced themselves noisily in the ditch below, and the raucous talk of late passersby walking on the tracks drifted to us, broken and incessant. Far away, the siren of a police car or an ambulance wailed, the snort of jeepneys making their last rounds. It was long past midnight, but I could not sleep. There was this last question that ached to be asked, the answer to which could, perhaps, unravel a skein without end. Finally: “Did he really commit suicide?”

My aunt was silent for a time then, almost in a whisper: “I had hoped your mother would tell you everything. After your father died, she visited Carmen Villa. It was a very difficult meeting. She was in a sanitarium, she was deaf and very thin. Your mama, she never believed Manong Tony was killed in an accident. They had lived for years here, and he knew the tracks. Carmen Villa confirmed what your mama thought. Carmen told her it was to show his integrity, when he did not have to, when she never doubted it. There were no letters saying good-bye. Your mama— She agreed with Carmen Villa. But how can we tell you this? It was bad enough that you are a—”

“Bastard!” I finished it for her.

She was silent again. “To tell you that your father killed himself, no … you will not understand.”

A cock crowed, and after some time Auntie began to snore softly. The world was asleep, and I was still awake, my mind open to the stirring wind, my ears alert to the sounds of my own torment, which had hounded me since I learned who I was. But now they filled me with a loathing beyond words, made me want to flee not just Cabugawan but even this Antipolo where my father had lived and died.

Auntie Bettina returned to Rosales Sunday afternoon, but before she left she admonished: “Whatever you think, just remember one thing: We love you. You will have many problems, but we will always be there. And your mother — please, do not hurt her anymore.”

“I will not steal again,” I said. “But I am not too sure that I can keep the promise.”

“It was a youthful mistake,” she said.

“I wanted the money,” I said flatly.

“You will get it someday, like your father.”

“Don’t remind me of him.”

“You will also write,” she said, leaving me at the gate, for her bus was getting ready to move. She waved at me before going in, and I stood at the railing till the bus had pulled away.

She was right, of course, about my writing, for on that day Professor Hortenso left a message with Toto, and Toto was all smiles as he went with me and the professor to his apartment in Dapitan. It was not a long walk. And for Toto, it was an honor to be invited with me to Professor Hortenso’s house for lunch.

His wife had prepared the meal just for the two of them and though she welcomed us good-naturedly, I was quite sure she was displeased at our unannounced presence. Still, she must have gotten used to many an unexpected guest. She asked to be excused while she worked in the kitchen.

We had talked of nothing but the Brotherhood all the way through P. Noval, although I knew, of course, that he had something important to say, but there was time for that. We were almost through with the sour shrimp soup and Mrs. Hortenso was preparing the coffee. Professor Hortenso got up from the dining table, walked over to his desk in one dingy corner, and brought out a bottle of Fundador. I had sipped whiskey once but never brandy, and to my protests he said, “There is always the first time. Just don’t drink it too fast. It is stronger than rum or cuatro cantos. Sip it.”

He passed the glasses with a flourish, his eyes crinkling in pleasure: “We have to celebrate. Pepe, you are the new literary editor. One of the judges wanted you immediately to be the managing editor, but you are a freshman.”

Toto was looking at me, wonder in his eyes.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, “I know you said good things about me. I cannot thank you enough.”

He took off his glasses; he looked younger without them. “But that is it! I was the last to go over the papers. You were one of the ten newcomers. I did not say a single word about you. The three other judges did all the talking — they were all for you, the way you wrote your essay, ‘The Role of Youth.’ They simply loved it, the probity, the freshness.”

“I wrote as simply as I could, like you said.”

“Simplicity,” the professor was expansive. “Not simple. You know the difference.”

I nodded.

“It was unanimous. You will be the literary editor, which means you are third in line. And next year, you can be managing, like I said, or even the editor. You have no one to be grateful to but yourself. You don’t owe me anything.”

“You told me, sir, to take the exam. Toto gave me hints. No, I am grateful just the same.”

The brandy burned my throat. Toto must have been drinking in the sacristy for he emptied his glass without wincing.

Mrs. Hortenso joined us for the same weak coffee in the living room, her handsome face streaked with perspiration, which she wiped with her apron. The living room was shabby and cluttered with magazines and pamphlets, the old rattan furniture covered with crocheted doilies. But if the house was threadbare, it was certainly rich with books. One wall was lined with shelves and the books were even laid atop one another so that no space was wasted.

Mrs. Hortenso saw me looking at the titles. “That’s where his salary goes,” she said. “Why, if he could, he would also pay for the publication of the articles of Juan Puneta.”

Professor Hortenso scowled at her, but she did not mind him. I had heard of Puneta — a man of great wealth, a champion of nationalist causes, a graduate of one of the English universities; he also had the reputation of being unabashedly on the side of virtue.

Mrs. Hortenso must have noted my questioning look. “If you’ll be with the organization long enough, you will surely meet him. And you will be able to know what he has between his ears. He thinks he is a writer, too.”

Professor Hortenso looked at her again, and I could see he was not pleased with the revelations his wife was making. Mrs. Hortenso continued blithely: “I wonder who reads all the things my husband writes. I do, of course, because I have to proofread them.”

The professor’s countenance changed and he smiled at her.

“I hope you will not be a writer,” Mrs. Hortenso said, appraising me, “even if you are urged to be one. I hope in the end you will do something else. Otherwise, I will have nothing but pity for whoever your wife will be.”

“I will not get married, ma’am,” I said.

“He will be a priest,” Toto added.

She laughed then left us to do the dishes, for they had no maid. By ourselves, Professor Hortenso became serious. “Tell me, Pepe,” he asked, “what are your plans?”

“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “I told you I need money.”

“I understand that,” he said. “But what will you write? What will you do after school? What can you do for the Brotherhood? You are a member, you know — an important member. And most of all, you can write. How will you use your time?”

I was tempted to brag about my karate lessons, how good I had become with the flying kick, but Toto would probably not understand. “I don’t really like writing, sir,” I said, “unless I have to. It is easy for me, stringing words together, but my thoughts sometimes come faster than I can write them.”

“What do you like to do then?”

“Eat,” I said quickly. I would have added “fuck,” but that would have shocked Toto.

They laughed and I joined them. “He is always making jokes,” Toto said, thinking perhaps I was being funny and did not realize how honestly, how truly I liked to eat. I always look back, for instance, to my first week in Manila — the comida China, the steak, the whole fried chicken, the pig innard halo-halo, and that exotic lunch at the Japanese restaurant. To have the stomach full, to savor all new and wonderful tastes — how I longed for these. I wanted to tell them that the Brotherhood bored me, that I joined only because I did not want to say no to Toto, that if I had to be a writer so that I could make a little money, I would do that — it would certainly be safer, perhaps more mentally exacting, but I would not have to deal with psychos and those poor addicts. I would write for money, be a politician, be a member of the Student Council only because these positions meant money, scholarship, the things that would make life comfortable and worth all the sweat and the saliva.

Professor Hortenso was saying, “Your essay was easily the best and it should be in the first issue of the paper. We will offprint about a thousand, distribute them within the organization, to other schools, paste them on bulletin boards. Then the Student Council, and afterward, maybe secretary, and, finally, president. With this essay, you will be very popular on the campus. Your election is almost assured.”

We would have stayed longer talking about politics and the Brotherhood, but he had a class at three and I was eager to rush home to Lucy.

As we walked toward the boulevard for the ride to Dimasalang, Toto was all questions: “What did you put in that essay? You made such an impression on Professor Hortenso, he even told me you could easily be the best editorial writer the paper ever had. I always knew you could write, ever since that paper you wrote on Don Quixote.”

“I read Cervantes three times. And not in comic books.”

“What did you say in the essay?” he was insistent.

“What they wanted to hear,” I said with some disgust. “What else would I say? I can dance to any tune they play, I anticipate their moods, their desires. I was not being honest, the way I am honest with you. Those blasted judges — sorry, Toto, but I suppose this includes Professor Hortenso — they are full of shit. They expect us to be full of shit, too. I just wrote what they wanted. It was so damn easy to fool them.”

“Pepe!” he sounded aghast. “You are joking again.”

“I am not,” I said. “What do you think the role of the youth is?”

We paused and he turned to me, his eyes afire with purpose, with vision and all the blather that the Brotherhood had pounded into him. “To look toward the future,” he said in a tone almost exalting. “To see to it that the mistakes of the past will not be committed again. To create a society that is egalitarian, that is dedicated to the upliftment of the masses. To serve the people, that is what!”

“Bullshit!” I shouted at him. “Now listen, my friend. The youth have no role. They have no jobs. They have no money. They are not in power and they do not make decisions. If there is going to be a war, they will all be dumped into the army. And they will be killed like young men everywhere have been killed — whether or not they believe in the war. Having no role is their role.”

He stared at me, unbelieving. “You really think that?”

I nodded.

“And still wrote differently?”

I nodded again.

He took a deep breath, then it came, “Son of a whore! Cheat, liar!”

“Son of a whore yourself,” I flung back. “I did it for something. Can you not see that? How can I pay back the five pesos you loaned me? The siopao you stuffed into my stomach? Get it into your simple head that I need the money, the scholarship. I am honest with myself, Toto, and with you. So, damn you, don’t you ever call me a liar. You are my friend so I am telling you this. Now—” I poked a finger at his face. I had become really angry with him, and we had stopped on the sidewalk. “Now, shall we go on being friends, or is this the last time I will talk with you?”

Toto bowed and shook his head; when he turned to me again and we started walking, his eyes, even with his eyeglasses on, were misty. “I understand, Pepe,” his voice quavered. “Yes, we will always be friends. But can you not see?” His face was taut and pale. “It is so clear. You had to do this, to lie, to cheat — things you really don’t like to do — and only because you—” his voice was now hoarse, “you … we, Pepe … we are poor. The Wretched of the Earth—read it some time. We — the poor — have no choice.”

His voice faltered and he turned away; he was crying, so I placed an arm around his shoulder. We had reached the boulevard.

A jeepney to Dimasalang had come. “But we are not alone now, Toto,” I said, then broke hastily away from him. What he had said skewered me, lanced me, hurt me so grievously it was almost physical.

Lucy did not help ease my depression. By now she was used to my erratic schedule and took my late arrivals with grace. Without my telling her, she lighted the kerosene stove and heated a lunch of snail and mudfish, but the food at Professor Hortenso’s had sufficed. Perhaps she was surprised that I gave her but a perfunctory kiss when I arrived, and when I called from upstairs that I was not hungry, she came up to my room and lay beside me.

For some time now, I had been thinking about our relationship — extremely convenient and pleasurable — but there were aspects of it that were hazy. Too many questions had begun to form in my mind that needed to be answered. What, for instance, if she got pregnant.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she assured me, pressing her belly to my side. “I am taking pills.”

“Where did you get them?”

“Do you need to know?”

“I would like to.”

“Come with me to the Family Planning Center in Dimasalang — that is where I sometimes go when I say I am going to my sister’s.”

“You had to fill out forms?”

She laughed. “Do I have to tell the truth?”

“Did he start you on pills?”

She was silent.

“We cannot get married, you know that.”

“Because I am just a servant?”

That never entered my mind as the reason. “No,” I protested. “I cannot feed you.”

“I can feed myself,” she said with a laugh.

But her relationship with the other man irritated me. “Do you still see him?” I asked, hoping she would not avoid the question.

She stood up. “I thought this is something we will not talk about,” she said pointedly. “If I see him now and then, it’s not important to you.”

“It is,” I said, rising and confronting her. “I don’t want to share you with anyone.”

“I am not your wife.”

“You prostitute!” I lashed at her.

She looked at me aghast, then turned and ran down the stairs.

I did not follow her; I had uttered the word and quickly realized my mistake. Remorse filled me. I had no money to give Lucy. How about him, whoever he was? And why was she not faithful to him if she loved him?

She was in the living room when I went down, lying on the sofa; her eyes were red from crying, but there were no more tears. I sat beside her, and she turned on her back. “Lucy,” I said, “forgive me. I love you.”

I surprised myself, telling her I loved her, holding her hand, kissing her hair. “I cannot bear the thought that another man …”

She remained immobile; she did not push my hand or turn away as I kissed her cheek. Words were not enough, but still … “Be honest with me. I love you, can you not see that? Who is he? What has he that I don’t have, that you still have to go to him making all those pretenses that it is your sister you are seeing? Why can’t you leave him? Does he give you a lot of money — and I cannot even give you a centavo …”

She turned on her side and hugged me. “Pepe,” she said in a voice husky with sorrow, “we cannot change things now. Yes, your uncle gives me money.”

* Kumbento: The part of the sacristy where the priest lives.

Litany of Slavery

It was just a matter of time before I would lose Lucy — this I knew not as instinct but as implacable fate, and the knowledge seared. She was the first; she was, like myself, a victim of this vicious condition, this living. Could we have avoided not just this entanglement but this very station into which we were flung? Always, there is something conspiratorial about circumstances that merge and fit, about feelings that ravage, showing how human and fickle we all are.

I always remember what Mother told me when I was about nine or ten: all those we love we will eventually lose, all those we hate we will eventually face. This is the inevitable sequence, the deafening roll that follows the lightning flash, the drab brown of the fields after the living green of the rainy season.

My first loss that Mother had described came the year the harvest had been niggardly. I thought I would never be able to continue schooling, which would not have mattered, except that, for Mother, this would have meant the end of the world.

I was fond of animals as if they were friends with whom I talked — stray dogs, cats, carabaos, hens and the roosters that chased and mounted them. I understand now the refusal of Buddhists to kill animals although they may not hesitate to dispose of their fellow men who cross them. They would eat meat as long as they did not do the actual butchering. I read somewhere that the cows roaming the streets of India are holy not because they are anointed but because, in rural India, they provide milk for the people and fire for their stoves. They may just be a pack of old, rickety bones held together by tough, dried-up skin, but an Indian writer said he could not endure to see them killed for meat because he had grown up with them, slept with them on the same earthen floor.

I understand this feeling.

The space below our house was walled with split bamboo, and there we stored battered furniture that could no longer be salvaged but were still precious enough not to be dispatched as firewood. Under the house, too, were four solid hardwood posts uprooted from the Ilocos. A huge bamboo basket sat in the center, circular and tall as a man and wide enough to contain a calf. During the harvest season it was half filled with the grain some of Mother’s customers used to pay her. But in June, July, and August, the basket was empty, for we had either eaten all the grain or Mother had sold it for my school expenses.

I often slept inside this basket, curled at the bottom with my dog, Pugot. An earlier pet, also named Pugot, a big, fat pig, was much too heavy for me to bring inside. We had no farm, so the underhouse was not to house work animals except when the pig Pugot, which we had gotten from one of Mother’s customers as a piglet, grew into a beautiful beast. When it was big enough to sell, the money would be shared by Mother and the owner. Pugot was a “mestizo,” with pink skin, white bristles, a very short snout, elephant ears, a tail that curled, rosy hooves, and the bluest eyes. In the mornings before the dew had vanished, I went to the fields beyond the arbor of bamboo and gathered leafy weeds, which, together with leftovers and bran, I cooked for him. He recognized his name; when I called he would rush to the gate grunting, then lie on his side as I stooped to scratch his stomach. I sometimes slept under the house with him on frayed jute sacks laid on the ground, and more than once I had rested my head on his belly. I had feared for his life when he was castrated and felt it a gross injustice to this handsome animal to have been treated thus and made to grow unlike a normal being, but grow up he did, into a huge and lumbering thing — so heavy that once, in his eagerness to meet me as I was coming home from school, he threw me to the ground.

By then, Mother and I were tired. There were not enough leftovers from the neighbors who also had pigs of their own, nor enough edible weeds in the field or free bran from the mill. The dry season came, then it was June and always, in June, there was this harried scrounging for money for the school opening.

The day before school opened I returned from the fields where I had gone to catch grasshoppers for our evening pot. For the first time, there was no white behemoth rushing to me. A chill came to my heart as I raced up the bamboo ladder to where Mother was at work, taking advantage of the last vestiges of afternoon light. She turned to me, her face pained and drawn. I had always anticipated Pugot’s fate, but I cried just the same when she confirmed it. She told me how much we got for Pugot, that I could go on to school, although I did not care for it. She told me then — and this I will never forget — that we will lose all those dear to us, and those we hate, we must face.

Then Auntie Bettina gave me a black puppy. I came to love him like I did Pugot. The dog was a mongrel, but a beautiful animal nonetheless, with sad, luminous eyes and soft glossy fur. It had belonged to a fellow teacher who was migrating to the United States. There was no one to take care of the puppy. Auntie Bettina happened to be in Manila for one of those interminable bouts with the bureaucracy, and her friend asked if she would please take the puppy. He grew up, not big and cumbersome like Pugot, but just as handsome and well admired by the women who came to the house.

One of them was the mayor’s wife, a stick of a woman with a dozen children, who loved loud colors, dazzling reds and deep blues, so that when she flapped down the street, one knew it was she even at a distance. She had a demanding, grating voice, and if she did not order a dress almost every week, Mother would not have put up with her as a customer. When she first saw Pugot, her face was immediately agleam with the same acquisitive expression she had when she saw a gaudy piece of cloth.

Pugot may have sensed the evil in her, for he would cower and whimper no matter how she tried to coax him in the kitchen or under the house. She was asthmatic, her breath coming in gusts that plumed out of her flaring nostrils and her gaping, painted mouth. When she had attacks, so we learned, she would hug the pillows and wet them with her frothing, her wheezing tormenting her household. Her husband took the frustrations of sleepless nights out on the luckless people in the municipio, lashing out at the underpaid clerks and policemen, his bleary eyes and listless mien transforming him from a mild and gregarious politician into a ranting devil — a state that lasted the whole morning but disappeared when he had slouched on his sofa and gotten a drink of gin and the sleep he had missed.

It was he who came to the house one day and said that he wanted Pugot for his wife. He was offering a lot of money only because Pugot was all black with not a single patch of white on him.

Mother told him I should be consulted, although I had listened to the whole transaction from the kitchen, where I cuddled Pugot. The mayor told Mother about her working without a license, that she was not paying income tax, also contrary to law. And finally, his wife would take her business to another dressmaker, but — some hesitant laughter here — all these would be “conveniently forgotten” and never dredged up again if Mother was willing to part with an insignificant little dog. He would also give her thirty pesos for it, which was just too much.

“And what have you to say, Pepe?” Mother asked.

“Why do you want Pugot, Apo?” I asked. He smiled beatifically; he had not yet had his gin or his nap, for his eyes were bleary and the smile became one gurgling laughter that tapered into a sigh. “Ah, my boy, you should come and see!” He brought out a wad of bills and started counting. Mother received the money glumly.

After he had gone, the whimpering dog in his arm, I followed him. He was just going up to his house when I reached their gate. I called out and he turned to me, his blob of a head shaking in disbelief.

“You really want to know?” he asked.

I nodded.

In their living room, the mayor’s wife was seated on a rattan chair; she was fanning herself, and when she saw Pugot she stood up, came to me, and hugged me like a leech saying in a breath that stank how grateful she was that I would give up my pet. Yes, it would not be in vain for now her asthma would be cured.

With her was Lakay Benito; we went to the batalan—the open space behind the kitchen where the earthen jars and the wash were hung and where, in most provincial houses, the artesian well also stood. I pitied Pugot and was disgusted at myself, the mayor, and the people around us. Reciting some incomprehensible phrases, Lakay Benito went to the table where Pugot lay, his paws now bound together. The mayor held the dog up while Lakay Benito, now finished with his mumbling, raised a small gleaming knife, searched for the vein in my dog’s throat and with one swift stroke, slashed into it. Pugot started to thrash but to no avail, and as blood spurted out, the mayor raised the dog higher. His wife now stood before him, her cavernous mouth open, her eyes closed. The blood splattered into that cavern, and down her neck, onto the front of her dress. She lapped it, making happy throaty sounds while Pugot thrashed and quivered, then stopped moving altogether.

They said I could wait for some dogmeat to bring home, but I did not linger; they laid my dead Pugot on the table and the mayor’s wife glanced at me, her eyes glistening with gratitude. She came to the house the following day and ordered three new dresses, but she never had a chance to wear them, for that same week she died in her sleep.

How would it be when Lucy left? Would we part with recriminations that would scar us both? I could no longer bear staying in Antipolo. Hearing the trains rumble by, smelling the fetid decay along the weed-choked tracks, repelled me, angered me.

Mila next door had become a sweet nuisance as well, for her invitations had now become indiscreet. She seemed to know just when I would leave for school, and once, on the pretext that she was going to Quiapo, she walked with me to Dimasalang.

I was really taken aback that same evening when Kuya Nick was at our door, apparently waiting for me. He asked me to walk with him to Avenida, to one of the new air-conditioned restaurants near the railroad crossing. On the way he had remained matter-of-fact, his face serene and quiet. He wanted me to order dinner, but hunger had left me, and I asked instead for coffee. He, too, had a cup — nothing more, and with the first sip, he shook his head with displeasure. “Now,” he said, “there’s really nothing like coffee from Benguet. Better than Batangas. You should learn to patronize your own, you know.”

I was no coffee connoisseur; in Cabugawan, our morning coffee was really corn roasted black, then brewed and flavored with milk and raw cane sugar, and the brew was far more exhilarating than what I now had. I was apprehensive; I thought he had learned of Mila’s efforts to seduce me. I did not expect him to start with a nationalist spiel and had, somehow, never connected him with such interests, so when he asked if I was an activist, I was not sure why he asked.

“Not all the way,” I said. “It is one way of getting something — a scholarship, money.”

“Just as I thought,” he sighed. A waitress with high wooden clogs and a flat chest asked if he needed another cup, but he waved her away. “It’s all right,” he continued, “as long as you know what you want. But be careful, you may start believing what you say — and then you forget the important things.”

“Important things?”

He sat back, his brow creased. “It is important that you know the nature of man, of the society in which we live.” He sounded like a college instructor, his English impeccable though interspersed with Tagalog.

“Would you believe it, Pepe?” he enthused. “I was a working student, went to Ateneo, and finished with a B.A. in sociology. The first thing you must understand is that we are status-conscious; we easily believe in appearances. At night, I was a waiter and a pimp in Dewey Boulevard. I often fell asleep during the lectures. You would not think, looking at me now — my cars, these clothes — that I did not wear shoes until I reached high school.”

“You have climbed very high,” I said.

“Ha!” he leaned over, his eyes alight with pleasure, his mouth drawn across his fleshy face in a grin. “School helped a lot — the friends I made there, the contacts, the entry into the homes of the genteel upper class. Upper class!” he snorted contemptuously.

His tone became tense, conspiratorial: “I worked very hard, saved all I could, and started pushing early. I had only three shirts in college, a couple of dark pants, a pair of black shoes — Ang Tibay. But I kept them clean. And when I had saved enough, I bought a car — a secondhand Ford, but I kept it running. Then I looked around for the fortune to be made. It was not difficult, the girls, the boys who were spendthrifts, who never knew the likes of me, slaving to make it to their level. And I did it and here I am, still making money off the bastards!”

He emptied his cup. “One thing you must remember,” he said, easing himself back into his chair, “everyone can be corrupted because everyone is human. Give me an hour — maybe that is too long — with your student leaders, with your nationalist idols in Congress, and I will have their price.”

As I pondered what he said, he asked: “What is your price, Pepe?”

His question did not surprise me. “I don’t know,” I said.

“What is it you want most?”

It was as if I had known the answer to this question all along; I wanted to live well, to be rich, but now that it was put to me in its utterest simplicity, I had no ready, unequivocal reply.

“To be truly alive,” I said tentatively, wondering if those were the right words, and then it came to me in all its morning clarity. Indeed, this was what I desired, to be fully alive, to have a real meaning to my waking and sleeping, that I was no vegetable in a simple photo-synthetic relationship with the sun, that every pore in me exuded not just animal sweat but the essence of me. “To be honestly, truly alive,” I repeated.

He sat back as if stupefied by my reply. “That is very tricky of you,” he said somberly. “What is it then that makes you alive? Money? Food? Women? Reading — ah, I noticed you are fond of books.”

“Those and more,” I said.

“Money,” he mused, “can buy everything.”

I shook my head. “Not friends,” I said. “Because if money can buy them then they are not friends. Not loyalty. Not love.”

Kuya Nick toyed with his empty cup. His hair was thick, but at the crown it had started to thin. It was deep black as the dye was fresh.

I had come up with a good definition of my wants, but I did not want to make him feel I had confounded him. “You act as if you have planned everything. Did you ever plan on being in love?” I asked.

He glanced at me and again, a smile crossed his rotund face. He gazed at the bright capiz globe dangling from the paneled ceiling. “Yes, Pepe, I have been in love. Still am. No, it’s not Mila, whom I like very much. Do you know where she came from? Rather, where I salvaged her? I don’t want to boast about what I do. I have a wife and three children — the oldest is now in his teens — and I love them and shield them from what I am, from what I know.” His voice became stern. “I have told you more than I should,” he said, his eyes piercing into me. “But only because I think you are honest. You must never do this: get people to know you, be really close to you, to read you like a book.”

“I will remember that.”

“There, up there in the enclaves of privilege, they know me as Nick, efficient, trustworthy, dependable. I come across with the goods, the contacts, and the contracts — at the time agreed upon. They don’t need to sign stacks of paper with me. My word is enough. Real estate dealer, customs broker — everything. My office is small, but it is up there, too. The other things I do, they don’t know. My family, where I live — these I keep away. These are mine alone. And elsewhere, I am Nick the avenger, the merciless harbinger of my law.”

“I don’t want to be on any side other than yours,” I said. “I am scared. Besides, it will not be decent.”

“Do not think about decency, Pepe,” his voice rose again. “This is an indecent world. All those people dressed up, attending those concerts, those fancy parties splashed in the society pages — they are all indecent. Each has his little scheme and in the end, they all use people.”

“You use people, too,” I reminded him.

He balled his fists. “Listen, I will not deny that, but when I use you, you will know it and you will get what is your due, just as it has already been so. And you will get more, if you are smart. That makes the difference!”

We stood up and walked back to Antipolo, through the shuttered stalls of the market, the leaves, and the garbage thick as shingles on the asphalt and on the sidewalk, and the stench of rotting vegetables around us. Then Kuya Nick told me why he had waited for me; he was a master politician, he had really worked me over, molded me to the form he could handle best, and he did this with his homilies, his ingratiating confidences that could have been lies but sounded sincere.

This was one of those emergencies and he would not have thought of me were I not dependable. Indeed, I was the man for it, with my capabilities and endowments.

“You will enjoy it,” he said, pausing in our walk, his eyes narrowed into serious slits. “I would not bother you, Pepe, you know that, unless it was really serious. I am compromised.”

The job was vague at first, but now it became unmistakably clear, and I should have been revolted by it, but I was not.

“You can do it — you have done it,” he said, breaking into a nervous laugh, and of course, he was right. “It will not be different. It will be in an apartment, with privacy, and you won’t even know who will be watching. No cracks in the wall. A one-way mirror.”

I had one last argument and it would have sufficed, but he had a ready answer for that, too.

“You will be with someone familiar. As a matter-of-fact, she is quite good-looking if I may say so.”

We hurried to Makati. It was an unhealthy August evening, a break from the nine-day rain, with this strangling humidity that permeated everything, enervated the senses, and fogged the mind. We banged away through rutted streets, and in his air-conditioned Mercedes we were free from the gummy clutches of the hour, free from the warm glue of traffic, free from the urinal odor of neighborhoods. Then Quiapo, Taft, and the new highway to Makati, the center embankments screaming with the posters of revolution, Ibagsak ang Pasismo, Marcos Diktador^* …

But there will be no revolution, no change in this rimless bog of creation; the poor have always been with us, Cabugawan, Tondo, and everywhere, the hovels and the scum. Bonifacio and Sulaiman — where are they now? What have they really left behind except a Tondo that will be there for another millennium? There will be no revolution, not while the only honest thing we can perceive is in our gonads.

We stopped before one of those spindly apartment buildings in Makati. At the far end of the lobby, aglow with capiz shell lamps, across the shimmering expanse of Romblon marble, Mila was waiting. She walked to us, her high heels a rhythm on the stone. As she passed below the capis chandeliers she looked beautiful, the contours of her breasts thrust against her blue jersey blouse, her legs creamy and well formed below the mini-skirt. She went to Kuya Nick and planted a dutiful peck on his cheek, then turned to me, eagerness aglow on her face. We got off the elevator on the fourteenth floor and walked an additional flight up. We were at the penthouse terrace, lined with palmettos and shrubs. Beyond the grill and greenery Manila was ablaze in the last furnace reds of sunset and, to our left, the neons of Makati burned against a heavy, clouded sky. The boy who opened the door greeted Kuya Nick with cloying obsequiousness, which Nick did not acknowledge. If the apartment was not his, he had seen a lot of it, for he took us directly across the parquet-floored living room, furnished with overstuffed leatherette sofas, to a wide room with a massive, circular bed, a wall lined with bric-a-brac, and a corner dominated by an Ifugao grotesquerie — the headhunter with a severed head, the hunter’s face in an immemorial pose of calm victory.

Mila followed Kuya Nick and I behind them, wondering how it would be when the moment came. He patted his mistress softly on the cheek and cast an assuring look in my direction: “Pepe,” he told her, “will know what to do.”

I don’t know how I rated with my audience behind that wide mirror, which occupied almost half of the wall beside the bed. I was sure, however, that Mila had long been denied her needs by her lover, whose mind, if not his values, was beyond my comprehension.

Kuya Nick had been extra kind to us — he did not let us meet our audience, which, he later told me, included a couple of senators, some millionaires, and other assorted members of the upper class. They left immediately when the show was over and, by ourselves, over bottles of beer and cold kimchi, he talked casually about what had happened, how his regular toro had been incapacitated. The toro’s wife — not his performing partner — had gotten jealous and angry because he was unable to perform in his own bedroom. As a consequence, his wife brought physical logic to the matter; while he was asleep, she simply snipped off that part of him which was denied her.

* Ibagsak ang Pasismo, Marcos Diktador: Down with Marcos!

Serve the People

My one-night stand may have been a smash — I could deduce that from Mila’s exalted and adroit performance, her whispering that she wanted it again and again — but it left me in a state of depression. It simply revealed how detached and cynical I could be. My mind had shut out everyone and everything, and knowing this reinforced my suspicion that though I considered myself human and warm, I was also a gross animal creature. This saddened and disturbed me, for I had considered Kuya Nick as such and I realized that I was cast in the same ugly mold.

By now, too, he had become bothersome, for he was intent on recruiting me, and many a morning he would be parked by the alley, and many a morning, too, he would give me a lift to school with the usual spiel that soon it would be November, the semester was about to end and I should transfer to Ateneo since “that would be closer to Maryknoll — and think of the variety, Pepe, that a young toro like you would get there.”

Damn him and his vitamin E; he could not even satisfy his mistress! But I did not covet Mila, for to do so would be to live dangerously; she was, after all, his property, and what had transpired in Makati was with his consent.

One morning he was peeved, for I had moved the bulky narra cabinet to the wall where the crack was and no longer could they see Lucy and me. I had a plausible excuse: the cabinet was heavy and, where it had been, the beam had started to sag.

“No more shows then,” Kuya Nick shook his head with a smirk.

It was not he and his mistress, however, who made Antipolo so oppressive I could no longer endure being there. Everytime I looked out of my window, I would imagine Father lying there on the tracks. I was in the same room, with the same bed, where he had slept. His memory often dominated the conversations at the table — how good he was, how full of promise, how well he had married, and what a waste it had all been.

But it was Lucy who really pushed me away. At first I tried to stay in Recto the whole afternoon, sweat through karate, read in the library, or devote time to the college paper and the Brotherhood. The Student Council did not require much effort. I was a representative of the freshman class and we had few talky sessions.

Lucy was quick to notice the changes. Maybe she did not expect the pleasant arrangement to end, but it was difficult for me to accept my uncle as the man who made love to her and paid for it. The most I did was buy her a cheap cotton dress at the Central Market and an inexpensive bottle of Intimate, the first perfume she ever had, and for which she was so pleased and grateful, her eyes shone.

From the moment that she revealed my uncle’s perfidy, I had tried to understand, to cast aside the discordant demands of ego and see ourselves as victims. The effort was futile. I had become too enmeshed with her, wanted her for myself alone, or not at all.

By now, Toto and I had also become inseparable; he had helped me much more than I ever could repay him. I did not, however, tell him the real reason why I wanted to leave Antipolo Street — that since I was already making a little money, a hundred and forty pesos a month as literary editor, I should be independent so that I could go home in the late hours if I chose to.

He had suggested that I move in with him. He would talk with Father Jess and I could help in church and have free board and lodging, but we might no longer go to school together in the next semester because if I stayed in the kumbento, I would have to assist in the mass, clean the chapel, list births, marriages, deaths, and do other chores.

The idea of living in a kumbento as an acolyte repelled and fascinated me, but whatever my feelings, they had to be subdued for the more practical purpose of acquiring distance from relatives whose concerns were not mine no matter how well-intentioned they have been. Besides, there was always that lingering belief that priests, like policemen, were never hungry; I would finally be free from the infernal vegetable stew!

I had never been religious, although I liked the religious holidays, the solemnity of Holy Week and its somber processions, the gaiety of Christmas, the dawn mass and the biting cold. God was a personal experience and belief; He fitted in my hierarchy of authority only as a last resort, the ultimate explanation of all the things too recondite for me to grasp. But He was no arbiter of right or wrong; it would seem that He did not care. He did not reward virtue; it was the scheming and the dastardly strong who lived happily ever after. Babies without sin die and so do mothers who are poor and cannot afford medicine or expensive doctors.

But I would work in a church just as unquestioningly as I would work in an abatoir. Besides, I had had experience in the sacristy, although that was long ago and traumatic.

Lakay Benito, the ancient sacristan and dispenser of talismans, had ushered me into this job as acolyte after I was circumcised and my voice had started to change. Much earlier, like most of the children in my village, I had gone through catechism and knew all about the body of Christ and His holy blood. I had tasted the communion wafer but had never had a sip of wine till that afternoon, the second day of my short-lived career as sacristan. I had just finished cleaning the sacristy when I noticed that the cabinet where the vestments and the wine were kept was open, and there it was — the blood of Christ — a half bottle of it, waiting. I was determined to take just one tiny sip, no more, but one tiny sip became two, then three, and before long the whole sweet bottle was empty. With a prayer of thanksgiving on my lips, I fell into a dreamless sleep.

It was already evening, time to toll the Angelus, when I woke up and realized the immensity of what I had done. The bottle had to be refilled for the morning mass and I must do that quickly. I searched the other cabinets, but there were no bottles there. I hurried to the market and, with my hard-earned money, bought half a bottle of cane wine — at least that was what I thought it was. It would be a different wine in the same bottle and, perhaps, it would not have done so much harm had I been more careful. Alas, the bottle I bought was filled with a similarly colored liquid and from the same cane, only the basi^* had fermented and had turned to vinegar. I need not recount the high drama that transpired the following morning; needless to say, it ended my brief career in the service of the Lord.

Now, among the few, I was being called again, and this time, if only for the fact that I knew priests eat very well, I heeded the call.

My relatives did not like the idea at first, but Uncle Bert saw its necessity. Lucy was restrained in her objections. We no longer made it frequently and she accepted that, too, with little questioning. As my departure drew near, she exacted a promise that I would visit her during lunchtime as always.

I did not know if I had made the right choice; Antipolo Street could be limbo or purgatory, but the barrio was purely and simply Hell. Yet, as Roger and all its denizens would tell me later, it was much better than the penury, the deadening monotony, and the slow death in the villages in the Visayas that they had left.

There was not much for me to take that could not fit into the old canvas bag; my only new acquisitions were half a dozen books scrounged from the bargain counters on the sidewalks of Avenida, dog-eared rejects from Clark Air Base and some library in the United States, and a couple of books that opened new vistas of Mexico and the civilization of the Andes Indians.

Toto and I walked over to Avenida and took a jeepney to that huge emporium, Divisoria, then transferred from there to a jeepney to Bangkusay, the end of the line. We got off on a narrow street, for the moment expropriated by a covey of children, many of them emaciated and soiled, playing in the dirt, while in front of the battered apartments and houses idle men gathered in small groups, talking away the tepid afternoon.

We entered a narrow street, half submerged in slime, more children playing, screaming, fighting around us, past tables with cooked food and swarms of flies, and more tables with wilted vegetables and dried fish, more men talking, and still more packing-crate houses, sorrier-looking than the ones in Antipolo.

We were in the Barrio.

I had read somewhere that to get into it was to enter a demented world where perspectives changed, as if one saw through cracked lenses or glass smeared with mud.

Years ago, shortly after the war, this whole area was a putrefied expanse of mudflats, the bay foreshore. In one of those rare, foresighted moves of government, this was filled up, and for some seasons weeds and other green things sprouted here, bearing plumes of white. Then the hordes from the provinces came and built shanties from packing crates, bamboo, cardboard, burnt tin, construction debris, anything that would shield them from the rain and the sun.

Not all the Barrio people were poor or from the lowest castes. There were politicians who enriched themselves with their pickings in the slums, and they built houses of stone with high walls, incongruous structures surrounded by dismal shapes and dismal lives. Policemen also built houses, which they rented out, promising protection to their tenants and their neighbors, for here the policeman was not just a man in uniform or a figure of authority, he was also the arbiter of justice.

There were no sewers; if government were more humane, sewerage would be the first thing it would have provided for the Barrio. And because there were no sewers, around us was the pervasive smell of rot, heavy and powerful in the rainy season and much more so when the sun shone. In spots, the waters never drained and planks were laid where the water was deep; otherwise, we would have to take off our shoes and walk in blackish mud.

They came from all over the country — farmers running from the Huk rebellion in Central Luzon, the ravages of typhoons in Samar, the poverty of Bicol, the laziness and inertia of the Visayas. They lived together because they were relatives or because they came from the same benighted place, and it was here in the Barrio where relationships became stronger as, perhaps, they had never been elsewhere. Relationships were a bulwark against disease, unemployment, hunger, and, in some instances, a safe haven from the gangs that preyed on people in the dark and convoluted recesses of the Barrio.

There was religion, too; the folksy kind with its symbols and rituals. Religion was their last hope, and I was not going to deny it to them. With Toto, I was their pusher.

The chapel Father Jess built was at one end of an alley, close to the man-made creek that flowed to the sea. It was fronted by a small, multipurpose plaza, no bigger than the basketball court into which it was often transformed. The plaza was covered with gravel and was actually a street that was not yet filled up and opened.

The chapel was no different from the tawdry shapes that surrounded it. Its uneven sidings were made of salvaged construction materials. A kumbento just as decrepit as the church itself was an extension of the church rear. It was divided into quarters, for Father Jess on the second floor and for the two of us as well as Tia Nena, who was the cook and lavandera,^† on the ground. Apart from the church was another building, also made of the same castaway material, and it served as a kindergarten and meeting place for the parish.

Father Jess was in the multipurpose center when we arrived; he was talking before a huddle of young people, most of them with rubber slippers and T-shirts. He himself was in blue T-shirt, sandals, and blue denims, looking more like an overaged bum than a priest. His big hands were gesturing and when he saw us, he beckoned to me: “Children,” he said, “this is Pepe; he will stay with us so that he will be out of harm. Now, remember, he is a provinciano, so you should not immediately convert him to your spoiled city ways.”

They responded with that self-conscious, shy laughter of young village people.

Father Jess ate by himself and Toto and I served him. Between mouthfuls of Tia Nena’s excellent ox tongue at lunch he asked, “Did you notice how those kids this morning seemed so distant? And I have been here seven years! Do you know what that means? I knew most of them when they had bare bottoms, and yet they still cannot feel at ease with me. Is it because I am a priest? Is it because I really do not belong here?”

I could have told him a few truths, but I was going to live with him for some time, share his food, laugh at his jokes, so I said, “I do not know, Father. Honestly, I do not know. But I do know priests are not poor.”

“I know what you mean,” he said sadly. “It had occurred to me many times, and it is true, I was not poor. Even now, I am not poor. I eat better than they and I have choices. I do not have to be here.”

A long gap of silence. “What can I do to be accepted by them?” he asked.

“I just don’t know, Father,” I said.

In another week, I still did not know. There are many things I will never know, and a lifetime in the Barrio would not suffice. There is no ready script I could follow in my relationships with people, in my journey through Tondo. All that I sought was to survive, and to find no difficult answers to the questions that I dared to ask.

The Barrio was not easy to know — this is what all those researchers and scholars believed; they came with their tired questions, their long-winded interviews. I soon realized we were overstudied, with all that fancy data stored in libraries and in computers. Still, nothing changed.

They came — those do-gooder sociologists, those slumming foreigners — maybe because they wanted their troubled consciences salved a bit, that by “studying” us, they would be able to unlock the gates of our hell and welcome us to their paradise.

But they never reached the pith, the core, the heart — it is beyond their perception because they don’t live here, because they are not poor, because there is always a way out for them. Look at this artist, Malang, how prettily, how daintily he pictures our homes. If only he had lived here, even just for a week — I wonder how all his pictures would turn out then!

All they will know will be gathered, concluded from comfortable positions they would not lose no matter how sincere or close they will be to us. Not us; we could not say the many things that strained to be said, that were coiled and seething within.

But not all of us in the Barrio were the flotsam of the country, nor were our houses of lowly shape and material. There were also those whose tables were laden, whose roofs did not leak, and even among the riffraff, some had power and influence that were real, though subterranean, because here were enclaves ruled by terror, by laws that applied only to us.

And among these men was Roger, Toto’s friend, although that did not seem possible at the time, considering how Roger teased and ridiculed him. Roger, Toto explained, was the leader of the Tayo-Tayo gang, one of the biggest and most powerful of the slum gangs. He was always around with his young toughs, most of them half-naked in the morning heat, their tattoos neatly etched on their gleaming brown bodies. He was fat and short and, that first morning, as we passed him on the way to Bangkusay for our jeepney, he stopped us.

“He will live with me in the kumbento, Roger,” Toto said in his usual halting manner.

Roger appraised me, then shook my hand in a viselike grip he thought would hurt. “You must bring us Father Jess’s wine one evening, and we will have a drinking party,” he said.

But though he did not warm up to me, he was not taciturn or menacing. And not once did he milk me for anything the way he did the strangers — the researchers, the journalists, the assorted do-gooders. He always extracted from them gin money, cigarettes, pens — anything that could be considered as tax for their working or just passing through his well-defined territory. I could very well get to like Roger, to understand him better than Toto, although Toto and I by then were like brothers. With Roger, it was easy to find out what he wanted, and what he wanted was not, in a sense, different from what I also desired.

It was Toto who confounded me — his seriousness of purpose, his narrow compass that was disturbing because of its rigidity.

At night, before we went to sleep, he would muse about his vision of the future. It evolved out of the Tondo that we knew, the Tondo that bothered him so much, not because we lived here but because it seemed so permanent and unchangeable.

And so, once bored by his quiet musings, I said that perhaps it was best if we just let people be, that we should just eat and run. This was what everyone was doing, and look at how comfortable and obese those who were good at it had become.

He raised his voice then. “We will bother,” he said, “because we are people, because we believe there is a just and merciful God.”

“Don’t bring religion into this,” I told him. “The God that you speak of is not merciful but cruel. And He is vengeful, too.”

I had read the Bible that Mother kept, a thick book with colored illustrations of bearded prophets, of Moses smashing the tablets, Jesus on a donkey, the Resurrection. I had loved the Old Testament because it was so tantalizing with all its gore and sex. I could look at Jesus as a historical man, a guerrilla leader who threatened the Roman empire and, when caught, must necessarily be executed by the Romans, not for his messianic preaching but for his subversive activities. But how could I explain this to Toto who was weaned on holy water and had breakfasted so long on communion wafers? How can I tell him that the God he worshiped admonished men to sell their garments to buy swords? Toto would need them, of course, to destroy the money changers at the temple, if not the temple itself; he would need them to tear down the shacks that were all around us so that this Tondo, this ugly scab upon the face of the land, would be banished forever.

So here I was, surrounded by the debris of the city. I had often thought how trivial was my life and the lives of those around me, how transitory this station. But Toto’s despair, this Tondo, had been here for years, for generations. My history book says so. It was here where Bonifacio started his Katipunan, that ill-fated secret society that he hoped would wrench from the Spaniards the freedom they had taken from us. Here, too, was where the organized labor movement began, only to be subverted and exploited by future generations of rapacious labor leaders. What had happened to those men, those professed paragons of righteousness who came from Tondo? Some reached the highest niches of government, and when they had gotten what they wanted, they fled Tondo to wallow in the perfumed precincts of Makati.

Still, a limbo like Tondo has its uses — it is a cause, a symbol people can cling to. It is a sordid reality that Father Jess and all those stodgy missionaries with big, fat cigars, those salivating messiahs oozing with human kindness, want to change. It is the wellspring for all those politicians who want to proclaim that their beginnings are lowly, who want some vestigial identity with the masses. It is the essence of which dreams are made, particularly by those who want to grow rich writing about the poor. No place in the country has been as religiously studied, surveyed, plotted, and discussed in seminars. How many doctoral dissertations have been written on its problems without those problems ever being attended to?

So we delight in saying that those who don’t look back to where they came from cannot go far, but some have gone far indeed while the rest stayed to rot where they are, to be visited again and again by the sins of their fathers.

Could anything be done? I have always looked with some envy at those romantics, Father Jess and Toto, for instance, who think that the human cussedness of which Tondo seems to have a surfeit can be tempered with good deeds and lofty thoughts. But I knew that the way was not through the pulpit, nor could it be lighted up by such slogans as those the Brotherhood had made.

I could take a kindlier view toward people like Father Jess, maybe, because I got to know the difficulties he had to live with, the condemnation of family, the sneering of friends, and the skepticism of most, including myself. There are so many imitators of Christ and some of them come in jeans, with long hair, but they refuse to raise the sword, to fire the armalite when the moment comes. Still, I must work with them, live with them, for they are allies and protectors at the moment. Would I protect them, too, if and when they need us?

There was one creature in Tondo who, I felt, needed me: Tia Nena. She could have been seventy or more, but after a time, age does not matter when it demands nothing but affection and respect. Though she was Father Jess’s servant, she was much more than that to Toto and me; she was a godmother from whom blessings flowed, for there was, in her silences and in her sweet forbearance, that quality of ageless compassion. Her face was lined, but her eyes were alert. There was something, in the way she was often bent at her chores, in how she spoke, that told me she had borne well and with fortitude a tragic burden. She spoke a little English and, I later found out, better Spanish. She had welcomed me quickly and took to washing my clothes as she did Toto’s and, on occasion, cooked especially for Toto and me. She smoked long black cigarettes sparingly, the lighted end in her mouth, and I always bought her a pack afterward. She knew almost everyone in the parish and even Roger, the gang leader, respected her. Toto and I were not spared an occasional sermon on punctuality, on thrift, the way she said she had lectured her two sons whose names came up again and again, as if she were measuring us against their images. Tia Nena opened up the neighborhood for me, saying to the people that the new sacristan was an Ilocano who could be trusted, unlike some Ilocano leaders.

It was not difficult getting to know the neighbors, particularly those close to the church, for, as in a village, we jostled one another like relatives and a secret did not seem possible among us.

Just across from our window was Lily and her mother and brothers and sisters. They lived in a two-story shanty; on the ground-floor living room-kitchen were her brothers. She stayed in the room upstairs with her mother, who was suffering from TB. Lily had a baby who died, whose father was a Peace Corps volunteer. He had worked in the village school as a teacher’s aide.

Ka Lucio, an ex-Huk commander, and his nieces lived next to Lily’s house. Farther down the alley was the house of Roger, the leader of the Tayo-Tayo gang.

Tia Nena was disgusted with Roger. “So young, so capable — and what does he do all day? Just sits in that tienda,^‡ drinking gin and seeing to it that no one ever crosses his path.”

Tia Nena moved about the kumbento quietly. When I arrived, she acknowledged my presence with a mere nod, and I felt that I had to win her approval. It was Roger’s gang, she said, that blocked the organization of the young people in the Barrio. At Father Jess’s suggestion, the youth had organized to keep away from trouble and to find out how they could be trained for work outside of the village.

Once, because Toto and I had to pass the tienda every day whenever we went to the city, Roger, who was there with his usual coterie, asked us to drink with them. Toto had always excused himself. Given his eyeglasses and weak eyes, they did not consider it manly to tangle with him. But here I was. I said, “Thank you, Roger, but please, not more than one small sip. Father Jess would not want me drunk.”

They laughed and Roger gave me his glass. He did not have a shirt on; he was pimply, fat, and on his chest a tattoo of a cobra with bared fangs, and on his arm a red heart impaled with a blue dagger.

Toto tried to drag me away, but it was better to know them, and this was an opportunity through which I could get closer to them. I raised the glass and downed the gin in one gulp. The boys looked at me in amazement, then they all broke into laughter. Even Roger laughed, his small eyes disappearing into narrow slits, his mouth studded with buckteeth yellow with nicotine.

“Next time,” I said, “it will be my turn to invite you.”

We hurried to the kumbento, Toto behind me, and when we got there, I rushed to our room. I never drank gin, and now I was drunk.

Then the rains stopped, but mud puddles scarred the alleys; nothing changed in Tondo except at night, when darkness brought a little quiet. But the darkness did not eclipse the life — the radios, the babble of children. Then the morning would drift in, heightening the putrefaction, the smell of feces that was thrown in the pathways at night, in the knee-deep waters between the houses, along the canals. The voices of children all around, the laughter of mothers who had no milk in their breasts, no rice in their kitchens. The day came brilliant and harsh, bouncing off the rooftops like silver.

Toward Christmas the sky was often cloudless and blue. At times the winds were rough. They churned the sea and brought to us the rancid smell of the bay. The clouds would boil, then darken, and waves would batter the sea wall. The fishermen could not sail out of the channel and they sat in the tiendas instead, drinking gin and wishing for the sea to calm. But even on days when they had a good catch of crabs and fish, it was never enough and they would always return to this island as poor as before.

It was better at night not only because there were dreams. I had read once that there was this man in a concentration camp having a nightmare, but his fellow inmates did not wake him because they knew no nightmare could be more horrible than the reality to which he would wake up.

Now I went to school in the afternoons and on toward evening. I was in the church the whole morning, and Father Jess had more time to go around, looking for jobs for the young people in the Barrio who had finished college. He was also trying to set up a vocational school. In the afternoons, he was at the archbishopric, where he assisted in the work of Catholic Charities. Sometimes he would return with a sack of powdered milk, which we then transferred into smaller plastic packets and distributed to nursing mothers. I always slipped a few to Lily across the alley; she needed them for her mother and brothers and sisters, and it pleased me to give her whatever I could.

Father Jess permitted me to work with the youth group and the first thing I did was to call a meeting. I asked them individually and they all agreed we could do a lot. But Roger’s gang stood in the way. His boys called me and Toto homosexuals. Still, we had to be together. I asked Roger and his boys if they wanted to affiliate with the Brotherhood, which was rapidly growing in the city and all over the country. They said they did not oppose it, but there was no hearty approval, either. In the end, I simply assumed that they would not object to our first project — to cement the basketball court so that we could play there even during the rainy season or use it for dances. I also planned for us to raise money for paint so we could beautify the multipurpose building and grade school, and transform the rusty brown sidings into something colorful.

There was plenty of skepticism at first; even Toto thought I was starting out wrong, with more imagination than was practical.

Yet something was missing; all through my first days in the Barrio, I kept thinking of Cabugawan, how very much the people in my village and in Tondo were alike, how they had come to this place, too, with nothing. The government had reclaimed this land from the sea and it was not meant to be a warren of squatter homes. But no one could turn away the hordes of jobless who had taken over the railroad flanks of Antipolo, the vacant lots in Quezon City, and this huge scab of idle land that was meant for commerce.

Ennui hounded me no matter how hard I worked on the school paper, in church. I swept the tile floors and scrubbed them where the mud of many rainy seasons had caked.

I swept the ceiling, too, of cobwebs and helped in the kitchen, although Tia Nena did not want me there. She was often quiet when the three of us ate at the small table in the kitchen. It came bit by bit that she was once in Mandaluyong — the mental hospital.

I tried not to worry about Mother and Auntie Bettina, and I did write to them, saying that I had moved to Tondo, that I had a job, and Mother had answered — it took so long, almost a month — saying how glad she was. She was proud of me, she hoped for me to be somebody, when all I wanted really was to see movies and eat Tia Nena’s wonderful cooking, something she learned when she worked for a Spanish family in her younger days.

I had reveries of Lucy and our first encounter, how we had wrestled and done it on the floor. Memory burned bright; I could not blot her from my mind or diminish my sense of loyalty even when I recalled her affair with my uncle. As she had explained, it was business. Auntie Betty and he were no longer sleeping together — she was in her menopause and sex repelled her. At first Lucy felt that she should leave, but Uncle Bert had not made any physical demands at home, for there Lucy was always a servant. Lucy was helping a sister in college who was “brighter” and could make a future for the farming family in Dumaguete. At first, Tio Bert’s offer was just fifty pesos, but Lucy told him she was a virgin, so he increased it to a hundred — the most he could afford. They would meet during lunchtime, maybe three times a month, near his Binondo office, then they’d trot over to a small hotel with a side entrance in an alley off Juan Luna, and they would spend an hour or two together. It was fifty pesos each visit, fifty pesos that went a long way in helping out the father in Dumaguete and the sister in Manila, who was their only hope.

I did not see her for two months, but toward January I had a terrible longing for her. I went to Antipolo; I had done her wrong and I wanted to tell her so, that someday, if things turned out all right, I would help her.

I boarded the jeepney, what I would say formed clearly in my mind — words of entreaty, of endearment. I was hungry and hoped to have lunch in Antipolo. Even the vegetable stew seemed appetizing. But when I got to the house, the lock was on. Mila came and said they had all gone out. She invited me into her apartment, said she could send her maid on an errand, but I refused. I waited for maybe half an hour at the door talking with her. I returned the following day, around lunchtime, to find the house locked again.

After mass that Sunday I went to Antipolo with one whole fried chicken, which I bought in Avenida. Tia Betty and Tio Bert were very happy to see me, but Lucy was not around; they had a new maid, a middle-aged Ilocana from Tayug who smoked hand-rolled cigars. I had difficulty bringing the subject up, but finally, when we were having lunch, I asked where Lucy was.

Tia Betty explained; Lucy was summoned home by her ailing father. It was a very pleasant parting, there were no recriminations. My aunt talked about her in glowing terms — maybe to impress her new maid — how industrious Lucy was, how clean the house had been, how polite, how little she ate, almost like a mouse, and how wonderful her vegetable stew was. To all of these, my uncle nodded, grunting approval.

At the university where her sister was supposed to be studying, I pored over the student roster, but her sister’s name was not there. I wrote to Dumaguete. Two months later my letter was returned unopened. I decided that if and when I could afford it, I would be a pilgrim to Dumaguete. I should have understood, I know that now. Lucy would always be in my mind, tormenting me, for I had judged her unfairly when I was not any better.

* Basi: Sugarcane wine.

† Lavandera: Laundress.

‡ Tienda: A shop, store, covered stall (Sp.).

Unite, Don’t Be Afraid

It was not difficult setting up the Brotherhood in the Barrio, but it was a paper organization and would not be able to do much, not until the cooperation of Roger was assured. I did not think he was all that tough; what he wanted from me, I surmised, was recognition. Spending years in Muntinlupa prison was a stigma he could not wash away. He was an “outsider” and he knew it.

Every time I passed his house I always greeted him. I also inquired about his likes and studied his movements. Thus, one afternoon, I followed him to Divisoria where he went to collect protection money. He was alone, and when he got off at Juan Luna, I overtook him before he could cross Recto.

“Roger,” I called.

He turned and, as I suspected, he was no bully when alone. Out of the Barrio, he had no swagger.

“Pepe, where are you going?” He even sounded pleasant.

“I was going to invite you for mami,” I said. “Let’s go to Avenida — there is plenty of time.”

He tensed with indecision and I put him at ease. “Roger, I really want to talk to you. I’d like to be a Tayo-Tayo member even if I am not Bisaya.”

He relaxed immediately and sounded superior again: “Well, it is not easy, you know.”

“Not even after siopao and mami?” I asked with an ingratiating nudge. “Please come with me — there are many things you really don’t know about me.”

I put an arm around him in a brotherly gesture; it would also give him an opportunity to make body contact and assure him that I was not armed. The gesture was not necessary, I think; they all knew that though we were in Tondo, Father Jess did not want us to carry weapons.

We boarded the jeepney to Recto, sitting together in the front. I asked him what it was like when he was in Muntinlupa. At first he was reticent, but then I told him that he had this reputation in the Barrio as being the toughest. He nodded, pleased with himself, and slowly he described a bit of the life within prison, the hardships that sadistic guards imposed on them. It was because of these conditions that the Tayo-Tayo gang existed, grew, and spread out from the penitentiary, and because of its rigid code, some were killed in prison riots. The noise and the traffic of Manila eddied around us and his voice turned soft and quiet; now it was easy to understand why he was so aggressive, as if the whole Barrio, his domain, was a kind of prison, too.

There was such a jam at the Avenida corner, we decided to walk over to my karate school, two blocks away. We pitched up a dimly lighted stairway. On the cement floor, the caked mud of years, scraps of paper and cigarette butts; so, too, that stale smell of tobacco, dried sputum, and perspiration that had drenched these surroundings and impregnated them with that unmistakable odor of a humanity gone sour.

“My school is upstairs,” I said. “Come, I want to show you something.”

When we got to the door he asked, surprised: “Hoy, are you a karatista?” I nodded. He drew away, looked at me, and aimed a playful blow at my stomach. “Siga—” he said. “Are you going to show me tricks?”

“Yes,” I said, “if you want to watch.”

A few white and brown belts were doing the basic exercises and our best instructor, Rading, was doing his high leap and double kick at the suspended bag. He was a black belt and had won trophies at national tournaments.

Roger watched with unfeigned wonder. “Can you do that?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

As I suspected, no one in his gang really knew karate; their theatrical postures were their imitations of what they saw in the movies, and a lot of it was, of course, phony.

“It’s for self-defense,” I said, “not for offense. That’s very important and that is the first discipline.”

I went to the locker room and took off my shoes. He did the same and watched me put on my robe.

Then I sweated through the exercises, the body bends, the jabs, then the side kicks.

The time had come. I got the practice knife; it was not sharp, but it was pointed and it could kill. “Roger,” I said, “take this and stab me. Any way you like.”

He demurred, his yellow buckteeth showing, his porcine, pimply face embarrassed, for now the other students were watching us.

“Take off your shirt, please,” Rading, my instructor, asked him. “It might get torn.”

“Do you really want me to?” he asked incredulously.

I nodded.

“And if I hurt you?”

“You can always rush me to the hospital,” I said.

He wiggled off his shirt, baring the heart and dagger tattoo on his right arm, and the cobra with bared fangs on his rotund chest. Both were handsomely done. He held the knife firmly and in a half-crouch started circling me. As I suspected, with all his fat, he was clumsy and slow.

He made a wild lunge that was easy to foresee and parry. I stepped aside, grabbed his arm, then threw him down in a heap without letting go of his arm. The padded canvas mat was thick and he was not hurt. I applied just a little pressure on the arm. He was helpless under me, his other arm pinned by my leg.

“Roger,” I said, “you know I could break your arm any time I want.” Then I let him go. He was flustered, embarrassed, and angry at himself.

“Try again,” I urged him, knowing that now, in his embarrassment and anger, he would not only try harder, but would be more reckless. This time, as I had expected, he held the knife differently. He feinted, then struck with a straight thrust. I parried the blow, tripped him in his momentum and, as he fell, twisted his hand so that the knife pointed directly at his chest. He was on his back, pinned to the floor. He gasped in surprise knowing the full impact of what could have happened.

I released him and he rose, white-faced and shaken.

“Pepe,” he said in a gasp, “you are very good.”

“That’s really nothing,” I said. “You should see what I can do if someone attacks me with a bolo.”

We dressed slowly, then went down, hardly speaking, and walked over to the noodle restaurant below the karate school and ordered mami and siopao. He had no appetite and toyed with his food.

“Please, Roger, do me a favor.”

He looked at me, his face expressionless.

“Don’t ever tell anyone what we did just now,” I said.

He was surprised.

“Not even Toto knows that I take karate,” I continued, which was true. “And if Father Jess knows, I would lose my job. And I won’t be able to go to school anymore. He does not like violence.”

He was now grinning. “Oh, no … no, I will not tell anyone. But, hoy, you should really be a Tayo-Tayo. You will be a very useful member. You can teach us many things.”

“What will the others say?” I asked. “You have been calling Toto and me syoki^* … maybe you should join the Brotherhood instead.”

He squirmed, obviously embarrassed. “I will explain. That’s what we call all sacristans anyway,” he said. “As for your group, maybe I became religious. Ha! Father Jess asked me. And who can refuse Father Jess? Why don’t you ask him to invite us for merienda at the kumbento?”

“Lutong macao,” I said. “Can I ask you for other things?”

“Anything. As long as I can do it.”

“You can,” I said. “First, we should form a basketball team. Then we will cement the basketball court so we can play the whole year. We can also use it for meetings. For dances. Your boys should really try to police the whole village — I mean, do the work of real policemen so that there will be no thieves, at least in our place. And our women will be safe. Then we will cement the walks so they will not be muddy.”

He looked at me, eyes blinking.

“You will make a good president, Roger. You have organizational ability. Anyone who can organize your boys the way you have has real talent. I can be your secretary and Toto — you know he is very honest — can be the treasurer. And when everything is ready, we will have a program. Perhaps a dance. But you will have to make a speech. All presidents do.…”

I was going too fast, hindsight told me this; he was grinning, then his face clouded. “But my men, you know, they are not educated.”

“They will be members, but this group will be called the Brotherhood. There will be younger people — Ilocanos, Bikolanos, Pampangos, not just Bisaya. And there will be girls.…”

He laughed. I ordered another siopao, which he now devoured. When he boarded the jeepney back to Tondo, although he had not had even a sip of gin, he was so talkative he could have been mistaken for a drunk.

But Roger did not support the Brotherhood immediately, as I had hoped he would. Looking back, I now realize I had underestimated the native and intuitive wisdom that made him a leader. He did not put it to me directly, how my book learning, my karate, and my being a student were of no consequence, if not utterly useless, in the treacherous and slimy world he knew and dominated through his cunning.

In the weeks that followed I was to catch stray glimpses of it in conversations when he dropped by the kumbento for a cup of coffee and crackers with Tia Nena’s blessings. I had first thought of their rituals, of their secret tattoos, as juvenile antics until I learned they were invoked as a matter of life and death. For it was with these that the gang was welded together in a far more stringent way than the Brotherhood could ever unify its members.

I once told him of my escape from the maniacal drug addict whose car I jumped from, and he had merely smiled patronizingly and said that I had been in no real danger. We talked about how it was in Muntinlupa, what solitary confinement for a month was, the beatings, the sordid indignities; karate was useless, for when one was killed in the penitentiary for infringing on the gang taboos, he was disposed of with skill, the victim unaware. And bloodshed — had I ever seen a man who was being punished, forced to eat his own ears, which he himself had to broil before his judges? And had I ever played bowling with a decapitated head in the cell block alley during a prison riot? The perversion of Kuya Nick … ha! Did I know that sodomy was practiced as a matter of course in the penitentiary?

I had considered all these at first as macho drivel, but knowing that Roger did not have that kind of fetid imagination, I soon came to believe his stories and marvel at how he had lived through them without going insane.

Now, at least, his relations with me were warmer, and he was less pugnacious. Maybe Roger was always patronizing toward Toto because Toto never crossed his path, but as I see it now, he was protective of Toto. Roger could talk condescendingly to him, but only Roger did that, no one in his group had that privilege. I did not understand why until Toto told me that Roger had also come from the Hospicio, but had strayed too far. Toto was the key. But the lock was never turned until much, much later, and when it was finally done, when Roger and his group finally joined, the cost was too great.

After I had set up the Brotherhood in the Barrio I had more time for Lily. She had been reluctant to join and be an auditor, for, as she said, she already had a past — an illegitimate baby that had died, fathered by an American she no longer saw. She was a salesgirl at a Chinese store in Avenida and was away all day, from early morning, when she would battle for a seat on a jeepney at Bangkusay. She attended our Sunday meetings during which we worked out athletic and social programs and even an excursion to Bataan across the bay.

She was out in the alley once, in a printed green dress that had known many washings yet was so becoming, and I wondered aloud why all that beauty was going to waste.

“She would make a good bed partner,” I said more to myself than to anyone, but Toto heard and the ferocity of his reaction surprised me.

“Animal!” he screamed and I turned around to see him glaring at me, his face contorted with rage. “Can there be no other thing but filth in your mind? Don’t you ever know how to show respect? Have you never learned that?”

I rose, and still in a jocular tone said, “Friend, I was just making an observation. Don’t be so angry. I have not done anything to you.”

Then it struck me; all through the days that I had known him, this girl often drifted into our conversation and I had missed it all. Quickly, I added, “Sorry, Toto, I had forgotten you love her.”

He sat down on my cot, his voice quickly drained of anger. “Yes, yes, I love her — and there is nothing I can do.”

And much, much later, I learned how he would have married her had she permitted it because he wanted to give her child a name, his name, although everyone knew the baby was not his.

I once visited her at the Avenida dry goods store where she was supposed to receive eight pesos daily, the minimum wage, but actually got only six. Her shoes and clothes were more expensive for they were all bought on installment. But even in her plain cottons, she was the prettiest in that shop, in the Barrio even, and I often wondered if her Chinese boss molested her. Her disgracia was brought about by a lonely Peace Corps volunteer named Paul Simpson, and it was possible that Lily may have thought that the American was the key to the good life, to America and its cornucopia of Avon cosmetics, double knits, and Detroit excesses that clotted Manila’s streets. Escape from poverty was often possible only through migration to the United States, but the quotas were full, the visas were difficult to get, and thus, whether it was in the anonymity of some rural village or in Tondo itself, it was many a girl’s dream to be married to an American. And those Angeles bar waitresses — dark and homely and raucous — were actually envied when, through some inexplicable alchemy, they were able to entice their American lovers into marrying them. Not so with middle- and upper-class women; while they liked American men, they often balked at the idea of getting married to them, not so much because there was no genuine emotion involved, but because they would be excoriated, mistaken for prostitutes and washerwomen with whom the Americans in the bases trucked.

“But it did not begin that way,” Lily explained. “He was a teacher’s aide, and after he taught school, he organized this youth dance to which we contributed. That was when we started going out.”

When his term ended, Simpson returned to the United States by a circuitous route through Europe. Lily had written to him at the addresses he had left, but not once did he reply. When the baby came, someone told her to seek assistance at the American embassy, but she was too shy to do that. She had, of course, the ultimate proof in her arms — a handsome mestizo baby with brown hair and eyes that were blue “like his father’s.” The baby did not live long.

In spite of motherhood, Lily had not lost her girlish charm or the innocence in her eyes. If only she had better food, her skin would be much clearer and there would be no blemishes on her arms or legs. It was a minor miracle how they managed — four children, two of them in high school, with her mother making only so much by taking in washing and peddling vegetables door-to-door.

Their most intimate conversations floated across the alley to us; seldom could we hear the hiss of the frying pan to know that they were eating something more substantial than boiled vegetables and the scraps of fish that her mother could no longer sell.

Lily’s mother coughed interminably and the younger kids always had skin sores. Then, one evening, Lily came home with two grocery bags and two smaller, oily ones, which, she said, contained fried chicken. Her face was flushed and happy when she passed me at the open window where I was reading, and she smiled at me before going up the stairs. Her brothers were squealing and the older ones, Boyet and Nanet, were full of questions. Her mother had started to cough again. She asked where she got the money to buy all that food and Lily was laughing and saying, “Mama, I have a new job and it pays better, much better than that store in Avenida. I am now a waitress in Makati. The tips alone! But I have to work starting at eleven until late at night.”

A month later, Lily could no longer attend our programs or our Sunday meetings; she had to work on Sundays, too, and it was only on Tuesday, her day off, that she was free. For several days I had wanted to go out with her, just the two of us, before she got this Makati job. On those instances that I was free from school early, I even detoured to Avenida and went home to Bangkusay with her after the store closed. On this Tuesday afternoon, as I was starting for school, she also got out, not by coincidence, I now realize.

“I am going shopping,” she said. We walked toward Bangkusay, avoiding the puddles in the alleys, and, once in the plaza where no one could hear, she said, “Pepe, I have something important to tell you. There is no one I can talk to.”

“We can go see a movie now, if you wish,” I said.

I had always wanted to be close to her in the dark so I could hold her, but then I remembered I had only fare money. “The devil — I don’t have money. Why don’t we just go to the Luneta and sit under the trees?”

She smiled, “No, too many people there. Yes, we can go to a movie — let me pay.”

“I will not permit that,” I said, but she won out, for I wanted to hold her.

We got off at Recto. She gave me ten pesos to buy tickets, balcony, she insisted, so that we would be up there by ourselves. “You can still attend one of your classes,” she said. “I don’t want you to lose your scholarship.”

It was one of those kung fu movies, but no matter how well Bruce Lee fought, he could not distract me from this girl. Once settled in our seats I put an arm around her. I tried to reach down her neckline, but she held my hand firmly and said, “Now, Pepe, don’t do that. What pleasure would you have holding a mother’s breast?”

We laughed, then she started talking somberly, slowly, as if she were telling me her one and only secret, and perhaps it was.

“Pepe, I do not know what to do.”

“I know,” I said.

“Do not talk nonsense now.”

“I am serious,” I said.

“Don’t make jokes. You know it’s impossible with us. Please help me, tell me what I should do.”

“Tell me your problem.” I held her closer and kissed her cheek.

“Promise you will not tell anyone in the Barrio, not even Toto.”

“I promise.”

She paused, then said simply: “I am working in a massage parlor, Pepe … not in a restaurant.”

For some time I did not know what to say and, noting my silence, she quickly added, a hint of irritation in her voice: “Now … now, don’t think what you are thinking. I am not a prostitute. The money I make … I get it straight, not even petting. I do not let them.”

“I do not believe you,” I said hotly, then I was sorry I said it.

She drew away, fury in her eyes. “I made a mistake in trusting you. If I can trust you, why can’t you trust me? You know that I cannot give you any proof.”

I was silent.

She continued, the anger in her voice had ebbed and in its place, this sorrow. “Did you know that until I got this job, we sometimes ate only once a day? And my baby, did you know he died because I had no money for medicine? You know that Mother makes so little, that Boyet and Nanet do not earn — and those two small ones …”

I drew her to me, “Lily, forgive me.”

Though not a sound escaped her, she was crying. I tilted her face and kissed her, saying, “Lily, I can do nothing to help you. Yet I cannot think of you in that place, with all those hands pawing you.”

Her crying subsided and we were silent for some time. We even tried to watch the movie, but it was useless — we had to talk.

She said, “Mother is getting suspicious, and I do not know what to do. Once, she said she wanted to come and see the restaurant. Boyet and Nanet do not care as long as they have something to eat. But Mother— I don’t know what to tell her. I never lied to her before, not even when I got pregnant.”

I wanted to know the nature of her work, how much money she made, what she did with the money.

“For the first time in our lives,” she said, “we are eating well. And I have saved a little. I have money in a savings bank in Makati, and I keep the bank book in my locker in the Colonial. For the job, I trained for two weeks at the Hospital Ng Maynila. That was not very difficult, and I can really give a good massage — a hard one if you wish. Someday, I will give you one, specially when you are tired.”

“What else do you give?”

Without hesitation, “Sensation — no more. The management wants us to give it if the customer asks. But not if he does not want it.”

I pretended ignorance and was sorry afterward, for I was degrading her by asking her to explain.

“I masturbate them,” she said simply.

I was silent.

She continued evenly. “All sorts of men, with all sorts of problems and all sorts of lives. I have to be nice to each one, short and tall, fat and thin, and it is very rare that they only want a massage.”

“And you give it to them?”

“No, Pepe, I swear. Just sensation.”

“Shit,” I said, the anger rising in me again although I had no right to be angry with her.

“Shit to you, too,” she flung back.

“Look at your new clothes, that new wristwatch. Don’t tell me it is the Red Cross. You got those with more than sensation, like a …”

“Like a whore? Is that what you want to say?”

The words were rocks in my throat. I must not spew them out.

“I am not a whore, Pepe. God sees everything, I swear to you. I don’t even let them touch me.”

“God,” I cursed in my breath. “I want to believe you, within me I do!” And again, I embraced her, and my whole being ached.

“What will I do, Pepe? What will we do?”

She had included me. “We—” she said, and I held her hand tightly.

“You must be honest with your mother,” I said. “Tell her everything. Maybe on a day that she is happy, on your day off when you can take her to Divisoria and buy her a few things.”

“That’s bribery, she will not like it.”

“Explain to her the money you need, your brothers and sisters, their schooling, her health,” I said.

“It looks so hopeless.”

“It is.”

“Suppose the neighbors find out?” she asked. “I cannot live in the Barrio anymore.”

“How will they know? I will not tell them anything. I do not think your mother will.”

“It is better that we leave the place.”

“And where will you go? Some expensive place in Makati?”

“You know I will not do that. I will not be able to afford it.”

“It is better in the Barrio. No one among your customers will find you there. No one among us— Shit, we don’t even have money for a haircut. We will never go to the Colonial.”

A salesgirl in the same shop where she clerked went to the Colonial and earned in one day what she made in a month and she did not go beyond masturbating her guests. The training, Lily said, was easy, but it was the clearances, the physical examination that she detested; she went to San Lazaro twice a month, together with the other girls, and was examined by interns from the medical schools. They took vaginal smears, looked and poked into them as if they were hogs.

“I hate it,” she said vehemently.

Sometimes she had only a couple of “guests,” as their customers were called, but on a busy day, she had five or six. She now had several “regulars” who waited for her or sought her and, yes, almost everyone tried to seduce her, and several even offered to put her in a “garage”—to make her a mistress at the monthly rate of two thousand pesos, plus an apartment with all the appliances and furniture.

“And it will last as long as he finds you pretty and interesting,” I said.

She pinched my arm. “I humor them,” she said, “but I make sure they know I would not do it. They ask me to go out with them and I always have nice excuses, about how difficult it is for me to do so. They come back.”

“For sensation.”

She did not speak.

“We make more than the nightclub hostesses on the boulevard, Pepe. And we don’t have to spend on clothes and we are not on display in a glass booth.”

“But you sensation them.”

“It is hard work; sometimes, when I have six guests in a row, my back, my arms ache; sweat pours down.”

“It is honest work,” I said disconsolately.

“Please don’t be harsh,” she said.

“I love you,” I said, “and I cannot make you stop working there.” Her arms went around me, and she kissed me on the cheek.

When we went out, to my surprise, it was already evening — we had been inside for more than three hours and had not really done much talking or touching; it could have been forever and I would not have known.

“Your eyes,” I said. “They are swollen.”

“I know.” She smiled.

After dinner that night I borrowed Father Jess’s typewriter. He was in his khaki shorts, reading one of the new Teilhard de Chardin books that he also wanted Toto and me to read, but I had demurred for I did not like religious books. To please him, though, I did bring down The Phenomenon of Man only to find it unreadable.

He put his book aside, looked at me, and said, grinning, “So you are going to be a writer.”

“No, Father,” I said, “I just want to improve this personal essay — boyhood in a small village.”

He beckoned to me to sit on the chair opposite him. We were going to have another session and I loathed it — it made me think.

“Did you have a happy boyhood?”

There was no telling him lies. The question had never been asked of me before, and without hesitation, I answered. “Yes, Father, a very happy one. I remember the fiestas, the rockets, the first rains of May, the grasshoppers and the frogs, the swimming in the irrigation ditches in the fields. Yes, I had a happy boyhood.”

But what about the stigma of my being a bastard, the jokes I had to endure, the questions I could not answer? He noticed the uncertainty that had come over my face. “But?” he asked tentatively.

“It was also unhappy.”

“Tell me about it.”

I had gone to him for my first confession. He knew about Lucy and the fountain pen I stole when I was in high school, but he did not know of my origins.

“I am a bastard, Father. It is difficult being one, particularly when you are full of doubts, questions that no one, not even your mother, can answer.”

“Remember,” he said softly, “there are no illegitimate children, there are only illegitimate parents — that’s not original. And sometimes it is not even their fault. Like Lily. You know that. And where is her young man now?”

I did not speak.

“There is always a reason,” I said after a while. “And we cannot avoid the most important of all.”

“And what is that?”

“Money, Father,” I said simply.

He smiled benignly. “It is not the most important thing in the world.”

“It is to me.”

“I can understand that,” he said. “Maybe because I come from another place. Did you not say, no priest is poor?”

I was embarrassed to hear him remember, but he kept on talking. “I must be crazy to have selected this parish, or started it anyway. I could die here of hunger and no one would be sorry — not my family, that’s for sure.”

“Why not?”

“You have been with me for almost a year now — that’s a long time — and yet you have never bothered to ask about my family? That is unusual. People gossip and there is no shortage of that, particularly here.”

“Yes, I know about your going to nightclubs and your having gotten drunk.”

He roared with laughter. “Soon they will be saying I have gotten a girl pregnant. One thing I like about the priesthood is the wine. I get a drop of it every morning.” He looked at me and burst out laughing again, this time so long that tears came to his eyes. “So — so, I have no more secrets, ha? You know me like you know the palm of your hand, ha? You and Toto, merely because you live with me, ha?”

I grinned.

“But you don’t know about my family, where I come from.”

“From Negros. I overheard you talking to an American visitor about the sugar workers.”

Father Jess was silent and a smile wreathed his rotund face. He shook his head and said, “You know, Pepe, if my family had not disowned me, I would have had enough money to build a beautiful church right here. And a row of apartments, besides. And we would have the biggest freezer in any kumbento in the country. Do you understand?”

“We can still build a church — you have many friends, you are very good at raising money.”

He sat back and said, almost in anger, “Build a church? Stone, stained glass, padded pews?”

“Why not? Look at the cathedral in Intramuros … the churches of the Iglesia ni Kristo.”

“Those are not churches, hijo. Those are buildings. Don’t you understand?” his voice leaped.

I shook my head.

“The church,” he bellowed, beating his massive chest, “is here. In the heart. Not an air-conditioned building with wooden saints, not people kneeling and crawling to the altar — those stupid people! Not processions. The church is here!” He beat his breast again so strongly, the sounds were loud thuds. His eyes flashed and the corners of his mouth curled as he spoke, “The church that we will build is here, and it will last forever. Buildings crumble, but the church that we will build will last. So look at this humble building that some are ashamed to go to. It is here where God lives, perhaps much, much more than anywhere else, but only if I can convince you and all those around that the real church is in us, in how we live, in the sacrifices we offer to Christ who is also in each of us. Everyone, my brother. But much, much more my kin is he who has nothing and suffers. To him I will give everything I have.”

Sadness touched his face, his eyes now darkened, the ape hands now folded in repose. “I sometimes feel that I am in the wrong vocation. I am so involved with the things I do, and yet I feel that I am not doing enough. Take this place for instance.” He paused and looked out of the window, at the Barrio shrouded by night, at the relentless poverty that spread wherever we turned, the narrow passageways choked with refuse, cluttered with big bellied and dirty children in the daytime and, over everything, flies that never seemed to die. “I think of the place where I was born, of the houses of my relatives and of my former students — they are all comfortable and, yes, very rich … and here I am trying to move the world.”

“You have the body for it,” I said. “You can push it one inch.”

“Let’s make it two inches.” For a moment Father Jess regained his humor, his eyes narrowing into slits, his mouth wide open, baring yellow, uneven teeth. Then he was quiet again, the wide brow furrowed. “If only I had more resources, more money.”

I did not know till now of his frustrations, having presumed that, as a priest, his job was easy: he did not have to worry about food and clothing, and when he was old, there was always the Church — omnipresent, omnipotent — to take care of him.

“I hope,” I said lightly, “that someday — joke only, Father — that priests like you would be allowed to marry. It must be terrible, not being able to live like a normal man.”

He shook his head and replied quickly. “That is a misconception that gets said again and again. Pepe, it is not the absence of sexual life that makes the priesthood difficult. We get used to it.”

“Yes, I hear they feed you papayas in the seminary morning, noon, and night till you are as limp as a squid.”

“Still, it is not sex,” he said. “I will tell you what is the most difficult about the priesthood. Obedience, that’s what. Damn, blind obedience. We have to obey, and if we cannot, we have to learn how to obey; we have to force ourselves to obey until in our conscience we have been conditioned to do so.”

“Like the army?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’d like you to go into retreat this year. Not so much to study your conscience as to be alone with yourself.”

“You can be alone in a crowd, Father.”

“Not that. But a chance to look at what you do. Do you think you have a conscience, Pepe?”

I fumbled; the question pushed me to the wall. “Doesn’t every man have one?” I asked instead.

“You are very clever,” he grinned. “What you are trying to say is, as a priest, perhaps, I don’t even have to bother with it. In the end, Pepe, we are all victims of circumstance. A world without injustice is not here; if it were, there would be no policemen, no courts — and yes, no priests. But there are things we do that give us happiness. That is one measure of a man.” He thrust a finger at me. “What gives you happiness?”

Without hesitation, “Food.”

He stood his full height, puckered his lips in mock anger, and pointed to the door.

So we aspired, we sweated to build a church here in Tondo, sought to bring light to its chicken-intestine alleys strewn with aborted hopes, slimy with crime; where no heavenly music floats above its rusting tin, and its flotsam soul drifts to the sea — not a sea of shining surf but muck and driftwood marsh awash with the turds of corruption. Look down here, those of you whose antiseptic residences will never be touched by our filthy hands, because it is not far off when the stench we breathe will give us the strength to surge beyond this dungheap into your perfumed enclaves, and with us the volcanic fires of vengeance; we will seep into each crack of your high and solid walls, flood over them like destiny, and you will not be able to hide, you will be transfixed.

Speed dreams, they have no place in my compass. I am here to survive and Tondo is just a way station, another rung in my climb from one garbage pile to another garbage pile. But we build from the past, and be it damned forever. We can never escape it so how can I now flee the old thatched house of Cabugawan, the scent of newly harvested grain, of fresh-cut grass; how can I flee the browned fields of May stirring at last to the touch of rain, the weeds thrusting up, the river finally alive, and the croak of frogs at night?

Toward the end of the schoolyear my past, which I had not told to anyone except Father Jess, finally hounded me in school; I don’t know how it came about — perhaps there were those in the Brotherhood who did not like me and the attention Professor Hortenso was giving me. The national election of the Brotherhood was going to be held and I was now being groomed by him for a seat in the National Directorate.

“You are one of the most popular student leaders,” he said, “and as you very well know, there will be candidates from UP who will try to get all the positions.”

I balked at the prospects. In the first place, I would not have tried to run for any of the posts in school were it not for the proddings of people. But looking back, it had not been completely without benefits. There was this job that paid, the invitations to seminars — all expenses paid — and, of course, the free dinners and parties to which I was invited. Without admitting it, I had always felt inferior to those people at UP, not because they could afford to study there, but simply because they had always seemed brighter than most; they always seemed to top the board exams, in law, in medicine.

After supper that evening, I strolled onto the empty basketball court and lay on one of the cement benches we had installed. It was oppressively hot in the kumbento and Father Jess would be in his shorts, the electric fan on high speed. He could have had his bedroom air-conditioned but had rejected it; there was not one air conditioner in the entire Barrio, and he was not going to be the first to have one.

Above, the sky arched luminous and was dusted with stars, and the sounds of the Barrio had started to peter out. Some time back, on an equally warm evening like this, I had come here and had dozed off, then woke up with a chill. It was past midnight and I rushed back to the kumbento, rattling the tin siding so that Toto would let me in. I was not sleepy; I was thinking of Lucy. I had had a busy year politicking, writing essays, going over asinine manuscripts and mushy poetry. I had now very little time for myself. I did not even go home for Christmas, and I wondered how it would be with Mother now. I remembered our house, the living room and its clutter of cloth, the sewing machine in one corner, the potted begonias on the windowsill, the polished bamboo floor, shiny even in the dark; Auntie Bettina working over her lesson plan far into the night. I wondered how it would be when they were old and could no longer earn their keep. Would I still be around to care for them, to return a bit of their love? I did not even write as often as I should have, and I only sent Mother and Auntie Christmas cards — as an afterthought.

I was depressed, recalling my callousness, when footsteps crunched on the gravel and, turning, I saw that Toto was there. “I thought you were asleep,” he said.

I rose and he sat beside me. “I have been wanting to tell you something since yesterday.”

“Now, Toto,” I said lightly, “has there been a time that you could not tell me anything?”

“This … this is very personal. You may not like to hear it.”

“Shit,” I said.

“Well, you know, the campaign for the Brotherhood Directorate is very … very keen, and the candidates, they are behaving like old politicians.”

“Like father, like son,” I said.

He was quiet again.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell me?” I prodded him.

“You will not … you will not get angry with me?”

“Hell, Toto. Tell me!”

“It will not make any difference — no difference at all,” he said, his voice lifting. “Why are people like this? They think it is dirty so they pass it around. They do not say it … they do not say it in the open … like … like men. They talk about it like … like girls.…”

“What are you talking about?”

“About … about you, Pepe. Someone does not like you … in the Brotherhood — he must have started it. But … but I want you to know … you have nothing to worry about. In fact … in fact, it is to your … your advantage.”

“Tell me!” My chest tightened.

“Dirty politics … very dirty,” he said. “The gossip is that you … you …” He paused and could not go on.

“Say it!” I shouted.

“A bastard …” almost in a whisper, then he turned away.

A great sense of relief filled me, and I laughed at the irony of it.

He turned back to me and asked, “You are not angry?”

I placed an arm on his shoulder. “It is no secret, Toto,” I said. “Everyone in my village knows about it. But do I have to go around shouting it? Telling everyone?”

He did not reply.

“Of course, it was difficult to bear, particularly when I was young and I asked questions, and my classmates — you know how kids are — often joked about it. There were times I wished I was not born … and my father, I know him now, all those years, I never knew him. He wronged my mother—” the words came easily, “and I hate him.”

“Do not say that.”

“I hate him,” I repeated flatly.

He turned away. “It is enough that we are here. Life is good; it has problems, but it is wonderful to be here, even in this Barrio.…”

“This hellhole?”

“We make it the way it is.”

“You are so full of hope,” I said.

“What else must we have? Revolutions are not made by pessimists, and even pessimists have hope. There is no sense in their being pessimists otherwise.”

“Still,” I said, “there are times I wish I was not born.”

It was then that Toto raised his voice. “Who do you think you are? God’s loneliest man? Job? Look around you, there are hundreds of talented young people who do not go to college. They have no way of doing it. Look around us, here, in the Barrio. How many sick people do you know? With tuberculosis? Look at the children. Still, life goes on.”

He was not stammering anymore because he was angry. “Look at yourself. At least you know your mother and father and you have relatives. Look at me, Pepe, look at me! Do you know where I came from? I don’t know my father or my mother. No relatives! The children I grew up with were all orphans. At least my mother did not flush me down the toilet or strangle me and put me in the garbage can! They do that, you know. And you are sorry for yourself, sorry for being a bastard!”

Again, I put my arm on his shoulder, but he brushed it away brusquely. “The world is ahead of us, Pepe. We make it. Not our parents. And there is no past, just the future!”

I put an arm on his shoulder again and this time he did not push it away. “I am sorry,” I said. “I am too self-centered. Everything I do I do for myself, for a reason. I have never done anything for anyone — not for my mother, for my Auntie … for you. Forgive me, Toto.”

We went back to the kumbento in silence, lay in our beds and continued talking quietly. “I feel better, Toto,” I said. “Thank you for talking to me.”

After some time he asked: “Do you … do you know now what you want to be?”

“To be happy,” I said simply.

He laughed softly. “No, that is not what I meant. What will you be? A writer?”

“Hell, no,” I said.

“You have talent.”

“But I will not be one. Maybe I will be a politician.”

“The different kind,” he said. “You are too honest. And when you are older …”

“I will not grow old. And you? Will you be a scientist with your skills in math?”

“No, no,” Toto was emphatic. “I have known what I would like to be for a long time now. But it is very difficult and very expensive. I only hope Father Jess can help.”

“He will help,” I said. “He likes you very much.”

“He has many responsibilities. And besides, he is not really healthy. He has a heart problem.”

“He will not die very soon,” I said. “What do you want to be really? A revolutionary like Ka Lucio? You will not get anywhere. Look at him.”

Toto laughed again. “I will do it differently,” he said. “I will be a doctor.”

* * *

I did not campaign very hard for the National Directorate at the convention in Diliman. There was not much for me to do except distribute the mimeographed handbills that Toto and I had prepared. The delegates from Mindanao were mostly Ilocanos, and I think that my being one helped. Professor Hortenso saw to it that in both the bulletin and program my “Memo to Youth,” which got me the literary editorship of my college paper, was reprinted. The two-day convention was filled with blustery speeches that left me numb and reeling. I was glad when the end came, and would have been even if I had lost. That did not seem likely, and my victory — membership in the National Directorate — was not the chest-thumping kind of achievement I would have been proud of. There was something shadowy and stage-managed about the whole election, but certainly I was not one to question its outcome. Perhaps I was a bit naive to expect that young politicians were going to be different from their elders, that they would display more candor and be less concerned with meaningless argot. The first meetings of the National Directorate showed that this was not so. We would argue out the minutest point when the Brotherhood Constitution was invoked; everyone seemed anxious to show that only he saw or possessed the true light. Diliman was no longer my territory; we were not in Professor Hortenso’s cramped apartment, drinking stale coffee and devouring musty cookies. Now we were meeting in a conference room while outside the musclemen of the Brotherhood kept intruders out, although I couldn’t see anything secret or conspiratorial about the discussions. They were really just bloated repetitions of what was discussed in the seminars. I did not remind them of this; I did not know the members of the Directorate well, least of all the chairman — an ascetic-looking Ph.D. who certainly was not a student. I did not want to lose the privileges that came with my new post. I also wanted to feel them out, to learn what drove them and to remember, most of all, how they could be useful later.

The chairman intrigued me at first, but soon I found him quite transparent. He talked very little; instead, he was listening and guiding the discussions to where he wanted them to go: to a consensus that supported his views, some of which I did not agree with. For example, his emphasis on creating the atmosphere that would bring about armed violence, revolution, before its scheduled time — if there was even a schedule for it as evolved by social forces and events. Then, there was his fanatical hatred of the Americans. I wondered if he really knew the poor whom he wanted to be his revolutionary fodder, if he was not indulging in book-learned fantasies. Whatever thoughts I had I kept to myself for the time being. I did not want to antagonize him, to be labeled afterward as a deviationist — his usual retort to anyone who disagreed with him.

Of all the decisions we made, what I looked forward to was the demonstration we were to mount immediately, before the schools closed. The convention was actually a preparation for it. The Brotherhood was not poor, although our dues were minimal. We had a good finance committee raising money for publications, posters, and this demonstration. I was given three hundred pesos to spend, no accounting.

The first thing I did was bring Roger and the officers of the Barrio chapter to Panciteria Asia where we had pancit canton, fried chicken, chop suey, and all the beer they could drink.

We also bought cartulina,^† ink and paint at a Chinese wholesale store in Divisoria. A sign painter in the Barrio, Ka Enteng, who painted the prow of the fishing bancas† that plied the bay, did the posters. The slogans prepared at the convention were clichés, of course. Ibagsak ang Imperialismo, Yankee Go Home, Close the US Bases … etc. I never felt strongly about them, but Toto did, and he even improved on them, adding words like Now!

They were all lined up for everyone to see, and Ka Lucio saw them when he returned from that small export-import office in the Escolta where he clerked.

Toto and I were viewing our handiwork with satisfaction, but Ka Lucio just glanced at them, then shook his head.

“They will not do, Ka Lucio?” I asked.

“You want advice?”

Toto said eagerly, “Yes, you know so many things.”

“Come and visit me in an hour,” he said.

Ka Lucio lived in a two-room house with two nieces whom he managed to send to college. An assortment of relatives, province-mates, and old friends were constant visitors. He tried to help them find jobs or, at the very least, offer them a roof and a meal while they were in the city. He managed to look like someone’s city uncle, well-bred and wise to the ways of the rich. A soft lilt to his voice camouflaged an iron will and a hardness of spirit that enabled him to endure not just years in the forest but more than a decade in army jails. Here, in the Barrio, he had not only been emasculated; here, too, was the final ignominy — to be poor and be with the poor, while many of the guerrillas of the war he had fought had become wealthy and gross and inhabited the perfumed enclaves of Makati. There is no adulation for a failed revolutionary, only a sympathy akin to pity or even contempt, not so much because he has failed but because he has lived so long.

Like most of the two-story houses in the Barrio, his was badly constructed. The living room had a cracked cement floor and a couple of sagging rattan sofas; beyond was the dingy kitchen, with its rusty kerosene stove. A transistor radio, a black-and-white TV, and a case full of books, mostly on politics, occupied a corner.

He bade us sit down while one of his nieces, who studied in the mornings, opened two bottles of Coke. They were not cold and the cookies, exposed to the air for some time, were limp.

“So, you are going to be revolutionaries,” he said, a grin lighting up his face.

Neither Toto nor I replied; he sounded very patronizing.

“It is not easy,” he added quickly. “But if you have set your mind to it then give it everything you have, but more than anything, give it intelligence — something I did not give. I was more passion than reason. I know otherwise now.”

“What do you think of the posters, Ka Lucio?” I asked impatiently.

He stood up. Ka Lucio was tall for a Filipino. His thin lips gave him an ascetic look but his eyes, always wrinkled in laughter or a smile, put us at ease. He had surrendered, but that had not helped; he was jailed just the same and had served out his sentence without parole or lenient treatment. He walked to the shelf of books. “You are welcome to these,” he said. “My library, or what is left of it.”

“What is wrong with the posters, Ka Lucio?” Toto asked.

“You are engaged in propaganda,” he said. “It is just as important as being out there, in the forest. No, I see nothing wrong with the posters — they are well made. Too well made, as a matter of fact. But will they be believed? To whom are you addressing yourselves?”

“They will be believed,” Toto said, “because they speak the truth.”

Ka Lucio shook his head. Though he was sixty-five, there was not a single gray hair on his head, and he did not wear glasses. Everything about him belied years with the Huks, the guerrilla war against the Japanese. He had lost his wife after the war in an ambush and had not remarried. Now, in his eyes, this certitude. “What is truth?” he asked. “This is not a philosophical question. It is a matter of perception. What is the truth that you know about the American bases, Toto?”

“Instruments of American imperialism, the enslavement of the Filipino people,” Toto said quickly, almost by rote.

“They provide jobs for more than twenty thousand Filipinos,” Ka Lucio said. “They bring millions of dollars to this country. Can you do the same, you and your revolution?”

Toto sat back; he knew the answers to such cliché questions — they had been hashed and rehashed in the seminars of the Brotherhood — and he spewed them right out. I knew them, too, but did not believe them.

“Our people do not understand such nationalism, even if it were true. It is more important, Toto,” he said paternally, “that you know how the people think if you want to win them. And slogans will not do it. Do you know what this means if you cannot win the people?”

Toto was getting peeved and was no longer stammering; he began to talk in a shrill, excited squeak.

“The people do not make change, or revolution. They are conservative and they do not know how to think of the future. Look at the people here, in the Barrio. They will go anywhere, wherever they are led.”

Ka Lucio shook his head. “You will learn otherwise, and when you do, it will be too late. The young are discovering politics, they are thrilled by it, they want to do something with it. And it is all very good — oh, if we only had you thirty years ago. What we could have done then!”

“But you did not have us. And you made mistakes,” Toto said.

“Yes, and that is why we lost. But we did not fail. No, by God, we did not fail. We made one step … so that you could make the next. I hope you will make it three.”

Toto sat back, his anger assuaged.

“I hope,” Ka Lucio was continuing, “that you will not waste yourselves. I sometimes ask myself, what have I done with my life? It is all behind me now. And what have I to show? Twelve years in prison. No, those were not wasted years. I was able to think a lot, the mistakes we made. And more than ever, I got to know what freedom really means. Do you know what freedom is, Pepe? Again, this is not a philosophical question.”

“Free speech,” I said, “free elections, free assembly, free worship.”

Ka Lucio shook his head. He placed his right hand over his breast. “It is here, Pepe,” he said. “This is where it lives. And once it is dead here, no slogan, no demonstration, no ideology, no revolution can ever bring it back to life. And to the people, it is not free speech. It is clothing, food, shelter, medicine for the children when they are ill. Education … not a degree from UP or Ateneo; just the simple kind that will enable them to get jobs.”

We left Ka Lucio reluctantly, Father Jess would be back, and we had to serve him dinner. We knew we would be back, if only so that I could ask how it was during the Japanese Occupation, how they fought, how it was that the Huks were defeated. Ka Lucio had opened a treasure house for me, and I coveted it.

Toto bothered me with his vaulting enthusiasms. He was much brighter than I in history; certainly, he had read a lot of Marx and Marcuse and could cite passages from Sartre and Fanon. I could only recite a few lines from Jarrell, Plath, and Thomas and relate the travel books and novels I had read. Still, I did some reading, too, not just the pamphlets Professor Hortenso prepared or had us distribute, but the esoterica at the library where I often stayed when I had time. Even if my political reading had not increased much, my conclusions were firm. There was something awry about the enthusiasms not just of Toto but of Professor Hortenso, who had a better education than all of us. We should have had more sessions with men like Ka Lucio to learn tactics, organization, and most of all, those irrevocable lessons of their failure.

“What is there to learn except consciousness?” Toto asked. “This is the most important thing. With the new consciousness, our minds are opened and we see the truth at last.”

“That is a lot of messianic shit,” I said.

We were in our favorite siopao corner and we had finished our noodles. It was one of those white-washed cubicles with waiters and waitresses in starched white. You lined up at a counter for noodles, siopao, and soft drinks, and then took your tray to a white Formica-topped table often soggy with the remnants of the last occupant’s meal; for some reason the noodles always tasted a bit soapy, and they were dry and hard no matter how long they had been immersed in hot soup. But never mind; I was not one to complain, especially since Toto was paying.

“The Huks failed,” Toto said, “because they did not have the support of the masses. They were fish caught without a sea.”

“That is too glib an answer,” I said, “although I will not question it. The important thing is that we should not forget it.”

“We are another generation,” he said stoutly.

“Yes,” I said, “but we do not look back. We are a people with history but we have no sense of the past. And look at our heroes now. The movie stars who cannot act, the politicians who are crooks. We are a people without memory. Why do we rename our streets after politicians who have not done anything for the Filipinos? Why do we allow the Japanese to build monuments for their dead on our land — land they had ravaged?”

“I will not forget, I will always remember,” Toto said.

I went back to Ka Lucio. “The Huks lost because they were betrayed.”

“That was in their time,” Toto said stubbornly. “This is 1970; it will not happen again.”

“You are dreaming,” I said. “You are blind to everything around you. Listen, our history is a history of failed revolutions. Always, in the end, someone was bought or someone turned traitor. We are a nation of traitors; we delight in seeing the downfall of others, even friends. We betray for money, for revenge, for envy, but most of the time out of sheer cussedness. So here you are in this organization. You will see me and the others claw our way to the top, over the bodies of our friends. We have the wrong memories. We remember the slightest injury to our pride, our so-called self-respect. We etch these in our hearts and wait patiently for the day when we can stick the knife in the back. But let someone do us a good deed, and we forget it easily. We are also a nation of ingrates.”

He was looking at me, eyes unblinking.

“It was this way before,” I said evenly. “Why should it change? Why shouldn’t history be a continuity? Diego Silang, Apolinario dela Cruz, Andres Bonifacio, Antonio Luna, Gregorio del Pilar — they were all betrayed. But the worst betrayal is when we betray ourselves for a few pesos. And sometimes we don’t even know it. We are shocked into discovering that we did it, bit by bit, until we had gone over the brink into the cesspool. We can atone for it with knowledge. But how about those who don’t realize it or refuse to do so?”

“I will not betray anyone, and I will not betray myself,” Toto said, his lips quivering. He was beginning to stammer. “All through our history men died for what they believed in. They were not traitors. You named only a few; the brave are more than a handful.”

“But where are they now?” I asked. “It is so easy to have people go another way. The student leaders — they can be bought. If not, all you have to do is please them, their sense of manhood, their being Ilocanos, or Batangueños.”

“That is not true, that is not true!” Toto’s voice pitched.

“The revolution against Spain — the Filipinos were bought at Biak Na Bato. The same with the war against the Americans. And the Japanese. Look around you now. Who are the victors? So then, why should the young be different?”

“Because you are different and I am different!” Toto cried. I could see people turn to our table; he was quickly aware of this, and his voice dropped. I stood up, held his arm, and we walked out; they went back to their noodles and siopao, wondering perhaps what it was that made two friends quarrel then stop as quickly as they had started.

Out in Recto, in the sweaty crowd and coagulating heat of afternoon, I tried to tell Toto how necessary it was to retain a certain cynicism, a little distance from those passions that possessed us, but he would not listen. He believed, and you cannot tell someone who believed the sky was dark when to him it was the purest blue. Looking back, I know I could have saved him. But I was being drawn, like the moth, into the flame that had been ignited within us.

Walking home at dusk, taking the small side streets clogged with people and garbage, I would peer at the dimmed insides of houses, the battered furniture of battered living rooms, and wonder about the kind of life these people lived, how far the reality was from the dream. Somehow, with the darkness, the hard lines of faces disappear, the dirt is hidden, and even the filth in corners no longer appears as detestable as it would in the daylight. But darkness or light, I could see them more clearly, their riddle that is the present and their past that should be destroyed if need be, but forgotten it must be. I see them as I see myself.

Walking home at dusk, I sort out my thoughts, try to understand how it had been, how instinctively I had drifted with the seasons. Who was it who said the bamboo survives the storm because it bends? That is what I know: to say the right things, the correct things that signify my acquiescence, my adulation, so that the wind will not break me. The storm leaves, but I stand — I stand without triumph for I have done what must be done in order to live. Is life really worth all this bending?

There are many others who will not bow, who will question belief, this course, and it is they who believe, too, that the crow will be white some day, that the skies will open up and from there, blessings will pour. They may wait forever, but forever is not time. For them, time has lost its menace. Only tomorrow matters.

Tomorrow then, and my first and biggest demonstration. I was quickly impressed with how an organization, working with a few dedicated members — whatever their purposes — could set up a singular machine for almost anything, to amass crowds of varying allegiances and murky origins, even the young people of the Barrio whose politics is simplified by slogans. We had planned well in the National Directorate. This demonstration was to be our show of strength; we had now aligned ourselves with other student groups — or rather they had joined us, for it was the Brotherhood that had the most chapters, the most radical slogans, articulate orators, best writers.

The delegation from our university was surprisingly large. But they came not because our cause was just but because it meant crowds, excitement, and, most of all, a good excuse not to be in class. It was perilously close to final examinations, but the dean of students granted us permission to assemble, and all classes that afternoon and evening were canceled.

We had fashioned red banners from bolts of cheap cotton and hired two dozen jeepneys, all equipped with sound systems, and these were now on the prowl, gusty with our slogans, urging on the students who had amassed in the side streets, Brotherhood activists marshaling the ranks.

Some had started to sing the Brotherhood songs in Tagalog, the “Internationale” and as Ka Lucio had said, they were as stirring as the Huk songs his comrades sang in their time.

The streets were now empty of traffic, and we had the asphalt to ourselves. Who would stand in the way of thousands of young people united for the first time? We were laughing, pleased at how we had brought ourselves together with so little money and a lot of rhetoric.

Toto was not a marshal; he did not have the build or the voice, and his eyes were bad. He was with me, and his face was aglow with the happiness that communion brought. He even had his arm on my shoulder though he was no taller than I, and it was in this manner that we marched most of the way to Plaza Miranda.

Ah, Plaza Miranda — the throbbing, malodorous heart of Manila! It is here where they all meet, the scavenging politician and his wordbound listener, the government official and his gross hypocrisies, the penitent and his worldly vows. The blooming banners, the shabby buildings loomed around us. It was four, humid and hot, and the crowd was so thick we could barely move. Not all were students — many were the poor with their plastic bags for the market, clerks with cheap vinyl portfolios, vendors in rubber slippers. The Brotherhood had arranged to have a mobile platform — actually a brokerage truck with the sidings removed — backed to the fence of the Quiapo church, and on it were our guest speaker, the aging Senator Reyes, known for his radical nationalist views, as well as orators of the Brotherhood.

All around the plaza were policemen and Metrocom troopers, armed and sullen, but they did not interrupt the meeting. We stationed marshals everywhere who knew what to do. At given signals, they led the chanting: I-bag-sak. Marcos — Tuta. I-bag-sak!

The marshals also led the clapping at significant pauses of the speakers. I was both fascinated and bothered. How easy it was to channel the energies, the raucous voice of the mob — for that was what we had become, how mindless, how meaningless the clichés, and how foreseeable the response.

Most of us were in blue denims and dark T-shirts, and we knew by experience then that rubber shoes gave us more speed, more comfort on the asphalt and that was where we left many of them the following morning where they were stepped upon and shucked off, together with the placards that had been ripped, the canisters of tear gas, the shards of broken bottles, and, yes, our blood — smudges of dark red on black, our signature that would describe how high we had vaulted and how we had been dashed back to earth.

Looking back, I knew then what unity meant, the sense of power it evoked from each of us as we saw our solid, swollen phalanx moving, singing, surging. But how long could such unity last? How many of us really believed in what we were doing? Well enough, deeply enough to have our blood spilled on the asphalt?

I am sure that many joined the demonstration as one would attend a fiesta — because that was what everyone was doing, because it gave a way to express resentments that could not be vented otherwise, and because being in a demonstration gave a ranking above the lethargy of the mass that was inert even in its anger. Time would tell who among us would soon react to the tragedy that hovered over us. We were no longer playing games.

But what I did not foresee was a demonstration gone wild. The last speaker had ended his piece to the usual applause. Although it was not in our plans, the demonstrators had started to move. Malacañang! Malacañang! was the new and electric chant.

We were marching again, intoxicated by our numbers, uncaring about the traffic jam we had created all around Quiapo. As the lead marchers reached Recto, an explosion rocked our rear. A massive surge forward separated the head of the demonstrators from the rest, but the marshals were very skillful. Makibaka! Huwag Matakot.^§ They chanted, and we repeated the chant: Makibaka! Huwag Matakot!

It was past seven, and the neon lights along Recto were glittering, but all the shops were closed. The merchants, the people were afraid. Perhaps it was best that they should be; now they saw what massive power the young could muster if they were organized, if they were led as the Brotherhood now led them.

It did not take us long; in another thirty minutes, while we marched and formed a broader column, we reached the corner of Legarda. The repository of history, power — Malacañang — was ahead of us, across the bridge and up the broad tree-lined street. I did not know what we would do; perhaps the marshals knew. Torches of bamboo filled with kerosene materialized; they lighted up young faces, sweaty and happy; girls in jeans and rubber shoes. It was a euphoric binge, and we were living and enjoying every moment of it.

Toto had not left my side since the start of the march, and often he would turn to me and smile and when the chanting came, it was his squeaky voice that was loudest. We paused. Word was passed down to us that the police and the Metrocom had a barricade on the small bridge that spanned the foul-smelling estero between Legarda and Mendiola.

Toto and I broke from our ranks and went forward to find out what could be done, and the marshals shouted the slogans again, I-bag-sak! I-bag-sak!

We had gotten quickly to the front, where the marshals were waving their red banners. Across the barricades was a line of Metrocom troopers, their rifles at the ready, and with them were Manila policemen, truncheons in their hands. From our ranks, the shouts volleyed: Sugod — sugod!^‖ And the formation surged forward. We were lifted as if by a giant wave, and it was then, in the semi-darkness, that the shots rang out, the volleys louder and different from the sounds of our exploding Molotovs. Around us were more explosions. Through the acrid haze, the Metrocom moved forward. For us, it was now each man for himself. Bullets whined above our heads, and as I started to run, Toto ahead of me staggered, then fell. As he slumped forward, his voice came clear: “Pepe, I’m hit!” God knows I wanted to go to him lying there, waiting for the oncoming flood of Metrocom and police, but by then I had jumped into the shallow ditch that led to the creek, and though I was standing and seeing everything and was conscious of the turmoil around me, I could not move. My knees, my feet had become rooted to the earth and no longer did I have control over them.

They came and pummeled everyone they could reach; then they regrouped and rushed at us again. I was now flat on my stomach. So this was what violence was, the red violence in which Toto and the Brotherhood believed, the violence that would usher an effulgent dawn, liberation, and all the boundless goodies of the earth. Around me, the thunder of explosives, tear gas, acrid smoke, the rushing and scuffling of feet. I cowered, I hugged the ground, I must live. When the phalanx of the demonstration was finally disbanded with tear gas, I clambered to the street and looked for Toto. He was sprawled there together with the others who had been shot; some were squatting and moaning, but Toto did not move; his left side was wet with blood and only the slight twitching of his arms told me he was still alive.

I cried for help and a Metrocom trooper came; ambulances had arrived, their sirens screaming, and we loaded Toto into one of them. I wanted to go with them, but there was no room. No jeeps were on Recto and Legarda; I had to run to the boulevard and hail the first taxi I saw; I had thought the wounded would be taken to the hospital in Avenida, which was nearest, but the ambulances were not in sight.

I boarded another taxi and rushed to Taft; they were at the hospital there, and the lobby was filled with students, policemen, and Metrocom, and everyone was tense and full of recriminations. Where are they? Is Toto alive? No one seemed to know, and they would not let any of us into the emergency rooms. Reporters were all over the place, too, asking questions, but I was too dazed, too sick with worry to talk to anyone until I realized that it was they who could get the information I wanted.

I approached one, told him I was an officer of the Brotherhood, and, yes, he was very glad to talk with me, but first I must know if Toto was alive. “I don’t know,” he said. “Ten are dead — they are lying in the corridor beyond the emergency room waiting to be transferred to the morgue, where they can be claimed; another twenty are on the critical list, and there are many who might have been wounded.”

He was in his early thirties, and he seemed sympathetic, for all the time he was mumbling, “What a waste, what a waste.” I told him how it started — we were out front; all of a sudden, the shooting, the confusion, the tear gas, the grenades.

But how is Toto? I couldn’t go in, but he could; Toto had short cropped hair, white shirt, dark pants, and yes, white basketball shoes. “Please go back and tell me he is not dead; he is my best friend, my best friend.”

It did not take him even five minutes. He asked me to go with him. A policeman let me through into a shabby room lighted by a single bulb. They lay on the tile floor, bathed by the yellow light, their faces, if not bloodied, ashen in death. In a corner, a girl was crumpled on the floor, crying, while a boy stood beside her, tears streaming down his cheeks. Toto was at the far corner, the blood on his shirt already dry. He did not have his glasses and, even in death, there was an ineffable quality of determination on his face, the eyes closed, the mouth slightly open. The intern who came in after me started filling out a form and at the same time asking questions. “Augusto Salcedo. Nineteen. I do not know his parents — he is an orphan. We live together. We will claim him early in the morning.”

I knelt beside him and held his hand. It was already cold.

Listen, Toto, my brother, if I were an Ilocano woman, I would now fill this loathsome room with my wailing.

I will walk home tonight alone, and our room will be quiet and wide. You are dead, but memory lives. I will hear your voice, feel your presence. I will remember. How can I forget? Who will feed me now in the afternoons? No more free siopao, free mami. Who will push me on to new heights where I can see a better view?

Toto, my brother, I will miss you.

Here you are, the life snuffed out of you.

Here I am, with muscles that still move, and eyes that can still see. If it was in my power to command our fate, it should be I who is lying here, my brother, for you have done no wrong. You have always given a part of yourself away, to me, to others. Who then are the spirits you have displeased? There was a purpose to your life while there was none to mine. Is it true then that God is unkind to let the weeds grow? Is it true then that, at birth, we are already condemned? I refuse to believe this because I know, in the end, it is the good who will triumph. You were going to be a saver of lives, you were going to change the ugliness that we know. I was not going to help you. But now, what will I do so that I will at least be able to face my own conscience? You were brave, and I was a coward; if I had just a little more of your courage, a little more of your dream, you would not be here. But this is not so, and I am alive, instead. I will live for you then, Toto, my brother.

A policeman was waiting for me at the door; he saw the blood on my sleeve and said, “Ha, they missed you,” then he asked me the same questions and I repeated the answers, but in between, I asked, not in anger but in sorrow, “Why did you shoot him? He did not even have a stone … he was unarmed.”

He became angry. “Do you know,” he asked, “that three policemen are dead? That many were wounded?”

“I do not know, but you are armed … and Toto was not.”

“How do you explain those broken shop windows?” He had raised his voice and was waving his truncheon at me. “What have you against those small shopkeepers? Do you know how much damage you have caused?”

“I did not smash any window,” I said.

“I did not fire at you,” he said. “My hands are clean.”

It is past midnight, and I am back at the kumbento—sick, tired, impotently angry. I hate myself; if I had not been afraid, I would have been able to rush to Toto, draw him to safety, and hurry him to the hospital even if he was already hit. But I was a coward, and so my best friend was DOA, dead on arrival. A few minutes more, God, just a few courageous minutes and he could have lived. I could have saved him with my blood. Not a drop of it had been spilled, and Toto was dead.

I woke up Father Jess; he took the news calmly, then told me to leave in a voice that cracked; he would break down, and he did not want me to see him thus.

Tia Nena, her eyes red from weeping, woke me up from a short, fitful sleep; there was hot coffee in the kitchen. Father Jess was getting ready upstairs. It was not yet three by the alarm clock on the shelf. I had slept for only an hour at the most. The Barrio was very quiet. On the way to Bangkusay, where we would get a ride — if there were any to be had at this hour — I told Father Jess what had happened.

“He would be alive, Father,” I said, “if I had gone to him.”

“It is not your fault, Pepe,” he said softly, putting an arm on my shoulder.

“He called out my name, I heard him, but I couldn’t go. I was paralyzed with fear. And I–I’m much, much older than he. He was my younger brother.”

“It was not your fault, Pepe,” he repeated. “You did not touch the trigger.”

After a while we reached Bangkusay. We waited silently for a few minutes, but there was no jeepney or taxi, so Father Jess said we should walk on to Juan Luna. There was more traffic there.

As we walked, I could not help but cry out my shame.

“I am a coward,” I repeated. “When we were at Mendiola, facing tear gas and bullets, I was in the ditch, scared. I was thinking of myself. God, there are so many days ahead of me still and I have not even slept on a bed with a mattress.”

“Is this what you dream of? Is this all you can think of? It is not much of a dream, you know.” There was both pity and sarcasm in his voice.

“Because you have never been poor, Father,” I said. “Sometimes, when I see what is in the kitchen, I envy you.”

Father Jess was silent; his being in Tondo was some sacrifice, but even in the harshest of times, as when he was working in Negros among the sugar workers, or among the dockworkers in Tondo, he always had recourse, he could always go back to the comfort of the kumbento or to his folks in Negros, who, I am sure, would take him back.

“Yes,” Father Jess said. “It is easy for me to speak like this. I keep forgetting that I can always get away. Do not begrudge me that.”

“No, Father. I am just saying what I think.”

“Still, there must be some dream, some ambition particularly now. All of us have dreams, you know. We may never make them real, but they are there, prodding us on. Toto wanted very much to be a doctor.”

“Yes,” I said. “Maybe, my dream is to finish college and get a job. And maybe, when I have made enough, I will go back to that other Barrio, bring one whole lechon,^a a fistful of money, and the best electric sewing machine for my mother … yes, that is what I would like to do.”

But even that was now far from reality. That morning I withdrew all my money from the bank and bought medicine and blood for our wounded, for though many stood in line to donate blood, it was not ready. In hindsight, which is the lowest form of wisdom, I realized that we had not really provided for such catastrophes as had happened in Mendiola. Our marshals were, for the most part, disorganized when the tear gas attack began. But most of all, we did not have teams to give first aid, fledgling doctors from the medical schools, who should have been organized for this. And in the hospitals, it was pure chaos just simply identifying the wounded and the dead. Only a few of our leaders, like Professor Hortenso, remained with us; the rest, like our nationalist Senator Reyes, the loud-mouthed champions of democratic nationalism and revolution, to where had they all vanished?

We brought Toto back to the Barrio before daybreak; the funeral coach could not get into the alley, so we had to carry him to the church. We set up the catafalque in the center aisle, and by the end of the six o’clock mass everyone in the Barrio knew.

Roger and his gang came and asked me to join them at one of the clapboard community centers that had long been abandoned but which they had converted into a meeting place. It was there that I realized how deeply Roger had felt about the quiet, weak-eyed sacristan whom he often badgered.

“He is dead, Roger, and no one, not even you, can push him now,” I said.

His voice trembled. “You don’t understand. I did not mean to hurt him at all. He was like me. He was a friend.”

It is one of those inexplicable ironies that one’s friends are often unknown till one is dead. “Did you know, Pepe,” Roger was saying as if he were revealing a secret, “Toto and I … we both came from the Hospicio?”

I nodded. “Will you avenge his death?”

“We will not be still until that is done,” Roger said, his oily face grim, the pugnacity wrung out of him. A murmur of assent sprang around us.

“I will help you do that,” I said.

“Do you know who killed him?” They clustered around me, smelling strongly of sweat, their tattoos glistening in the light.

I nodded. “It was not a soldier nor a policeman, Roger.”

“Don’t make a fool of me,” he raised his voice.

“I don’t intend to,” I said. “I am trying to tell you that avenging Toto is very difficult, and what you have in mind is futile, even childish.”

I then proceeded to tell them as simply as I could about Toto’s involvement with the Brotherhood — the reasons for his commitment, how our enemies wanted to discredit us, how these same enemies created this vast miasma, this Barrio, from which we would never escape if we did not do what should be done.

“You will have your revenge, and it will be sweet, but only if you don’t make it personal, if you are organized, if you join us.”

I wanted to give Roger what was left of the Brotherhood money so that they could buy refreshments for the wake, but Roger refused it. They would do that on their own, and it would only be the beginning. The beginning.

Two elderly nuns came that night, their burdens imprinted on their faces, and one cried like a child. I remembered Toto’s stories about his boyhood, how each of the orphans had his favorite nun and how difficult it was to get her attention, for the orphans numbered more than a hundred. He did not know then what it was to own new clothes, for with the exception of what was their “best” for church or for going out, all their clothes were hand-me-downs. But at least they ate three times a day.

We buried Toto the following morning in a small plot that belonged to the Church in La Loma. Some of our classmates and officers of the Brotherhood came. I was grateful that Professor Hortenso and his wife were present, and with them was Juan Puneta, the scholar, heir to millions, blasé and elegant, a member of the famous Puneta family of philanthropists, educators, and businessmen. He wanted us to ride in his Continental — a big, black car with a khaki-uniformed chauffeur, but Father Jess demurred, he would be with Toto’s friends; so Puneta joined us in the jeepney that followed the hearse.

Lily and Roger stared at Juan Puneta in his white double-knit suit, which he did not remove although it was warm and all of us were already perspiring.

“How did it happen?” he asked no one in particular. Father Jess pointed to me. “He was there. Pepe knows, he is on the National Directorate of the Brotherhood.”

Juan Puneta looked at me, his eyes noncommittal. He was in his late thirties. His Tagalog was poor, maybe because he spoke Spanish and English more. “Yes, Professor Hortenso told me about you,” he said in a flat voice. “And they are all good things,” he smiled. “How did it happen? Oh, damn the police, damn the Metrocom.”

“He was one of the first to get hit,” I said. “We were not at the head of the demonstration, we were way back, but we had gone out front when we stalled. Then the firing started — we do not know where it came from.”

“The Metrocom, who else?” he said bitterly. “The police. They have guns, don’t they?”

I did not speak. “The bullet hole,” I said, afterward, “is just below his left breast. He died before he could get to the hospital. Loss of blood — that is what the doctor said.”

“Damn the Metrocom. You should fight back. You should be armed.” Puneta was gesticulating to no one in particular. He had started to perspire and the sweat glistened on his pallid forehead. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and daubed his forehead primly, then folded the handkerchief carefully and placed it back.

Lily wept when Toto was lowered into the grave. As Father Jess blessed the casket, tears misted my eyes. I felt this weight crushing my chest, and I could not breathe. When it was over, I decided to stay behind to watch the cantero smooth out the cement that marked the grave. I spelled out the inscription he would etch on it: Augusto Salcedo. 1951–1970. The Brotherhood Honors You.

Lily, who would not be off to her massage parlor in Makati till noon, stayed with me. It was almost eleven when the job was done and we walked to one of the greasy lechon restaurants in La Loma. She was silent in the cemetery. Now, she asked, “Pepe, do you like that Puneta?”

Her question startled me: “Why do you ask? It is the first time I ever saw him. But I have heard of him; he was talked about in one of the National Directorate meetings. He contributes to the Brotherhood, you know.”

She was silent for a while. “It is not good money,” she said. “I don’t trust him.”

“There is no dirty money, Lily,” I said.

“I know him.”

To my look of surprise, she smiled: “No, he does not know me at all. But he comes to the Colonial — almost every day. He is syoki.”

“He is married,” I said, remembering his elegant society wedding, how his family and three children were featured in magazines, riding horses, target-shooting.

“That does not make a difference,” she said. “He is syoki. When he goes to the Colonial, he never has a massage. He has a ‘regular’ and she never gives him one — or ‘sensation’ him. She just sits there and tells him of the men she has handled. And you know what he does? He goes to the shower, to the steam room when the traffic is heaviest, he just goes there pretending to shower when really he is enjoying himself, looking.”

“You are too imaginative,” I said. “You should write for Liway-way.”

“This is the truth,” she said. “A month at the Colonial and you have a lifetime, ten lifetimes, of sex education. All sorts of men and we … we talk about them, compare experiences, and have a good laugh now and then.”

“I will never go there then.”

“Good for you,” she said.

I did not have any appetite and neither did she. Toto was too much on our minds.

“Toto was in love with me,” Lily said.

“I love you, too.”

“I did not reciprocate, and he realized that. But he was a good friend, though he seemed distant. And now he is dead and I never got to know him very well, to really thank him for the many things he had given my mother, my brothers and sisters. Did you know, Pepe, he paid Boyet’s tuition fee last year?”

I was not surprised.

Lily decided not to go to the Colonial. “Let us go to a place where we can be alone and forget the Barrio.”

“To a movie,” I suggested. I had money and this time I would spend on her.

“No,” she said. “I have never been to the zoo. Let us go there.”

It was past noon. We boarded a jeepney for Quiapo. From Plaza Miranda on to Plaza Santa Cruz the sidewalks were plastered with our posters, and plywood shutters were now over all the shop windows. Garbage was piled on Plaza Miranda, and Carriedo was taken over by sidewalk vendors. In Avenida we boarded another jeepney for Mabini.

The zoo was almost deserted; we had a bench and the greenery to ourselves. Lily had looked at the giraffes and elephants with perfunctory interest. She wanted to talk.

“I did what you told me,” she finally said. “I took Mother and the young ones out. We went by taxi to the Luneta. For fresh air, I said. Toward evening we went to the Aristocrat and had fried chicken. We were very happy … then I told Mother. The young ones were too busy eating to listen.”

“What did she say?”

“She cried, right there in the restaurant, not loud, the tears just falling down her cheeks. She said I was the best person to decide, that she would pray no harm would come to me, that I would remain honorable.”

“You will have difficulty doing that, Lily. You are on a precipice, just one nudge and you will keel over.”

“I know,” she said sadly.

“You have known how it is to be embraced by a man. What happens when you have a customer you like, and you are there … in the dark?”

“It has not happened yet.”

“But it will happen!”

Silence, the bustle of children nearby, the tinkle of an ice cream vendor’s bell.

“I wish I could have you stop, Lily.”

She held my hand.

“When we are together like this, are you Number Seventeen or yourself?”

“I am myself, of course,” she said, eyes flashing. “I know you are not trying to garaje me.”

“I cannot afford it.”

“It is not that. I would not let you.”

“Because you do not care.”

Tenderness in her eyes, she opened her mouth as if to speak, but she stopped. After a while, she asked quietly, “What is it you really want from me? Do not joke now. Everyone who has been to the Colonial wants one thing.”

I wanted to assure her I was no different, that I wanted her, but I could not bring myself to tell her this although I was sure she knew.

“You will only leave me dangling,” she continued.

“I am not impotent!”

“That is not what I meant,” she said quickly. “You know, there will be many things on our minds, I will be thinking of my past, my job, how it will be, and it will not be enjoyable anymore.”

“I try to live for now,” I said.

“I have my mother, my brothers and sisters.”

“I know.”

“With us, nothing serious, that’s all.”

“I cannot be flippant with you,” I said. “I am sincere. Remember that.”

“But why me?” she asked. “There are so many girls in your school. They are not unwed mothers, and they do not have families to support. And most of all, they don’t work in massage parlors where they give sensation to six, eight men every day — old men, teenagers, businessmen. Why me? Why can you not be clear-headed?”

“I am.”

“Then keep away from me.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” she said, but without conviction.

I kissed her hand that had grasped a hundred penises.

“I don’t understand, Pepe,” she said.

“It’s fate.”

I was silent for a while, contemplating her face, the sad eyes, the small pert nose, the lips, and the soft line of her jaw.

“Ramona,” I breathed.

“What?”

“I am dreaming again,” I said. “Even with people, I sometimes forget I am here, here in Manila, here in this Barrio, here.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Do not laugh. Ever since I was young I have always held one girl in my heart. You know, those crushes when you are a teenager. But this one has lasted.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She is dark brown — very kayumanggi,^b as they say. Usually, the girl boys dream of are fair, mestiza.”

“But she is dark.”

“Yes, as dark as you. I will recognize her when I see her.”

“You mean you have not met her?”

“Yes, I have — but here, only in my mind.”

“Something like an ideal?”

“More than that. She is very real to me. I can hear her voice, and it is melodious and soft. I can see her, slim but not thin. And her breasts are small. She is slightly bowlegged. And her skin is clear and richly toned. And her eyebrows are unplucked.”

“But she does not exist.”

“She does, here,” I gestured toward my breast.

“Ligaw tingin, kantot hanging.^c But this is worse because she does not even exist,” she sighed.

“I told you, she is here.”

“How did you first meet her?”

“In some melody Mother hummed when I was young. Ramona — if only she would be real someday.”

“Ramona — she even has a name. But it isn’t a very romantic name.”

“It is to me.”

“How did she get that name?”

“I don’t know all the words, ‘I hear the mission bells above … I dread the dawn when I wake to find you are gone …’ ”

“She isn’t here,” she said. “But I am.”

“And so is the night,” I said, “and it is a long, long night.”

“What are you trying to say?”

How could I tell her? Describe the murk where I had been, in my mind more than in what was around us?

“The world is dark,” I said, instead. Her hand tightened on mine. The sun blazed down, a boy selling ice cream came to us, but we did not want any. She had a new wristwatch, it was almost four. We had clung to words as if they were nuggets of wisdom, but the only truth was that we were together in this dismal place. How does the song go? “It’s only words, and words are all I have to take your heart away …” And now, while I was rich with words, I could not speak the right ones to impress upon her that sitting on this edge of perdition or clinging to this razor’s edge, as the old saying goes, is our only alternative.

* Syoki: Not masculine; homosexual.

† Cartulina: Cardboard, poster board.

‡ † Banca: A Philippine canoe.

§ Makibaka! Huwag Matakot!: Join! Don’t be afraid!

‖ Sugod: Advance!

a Lechon: A roast suckling pig.

b Kayumanggi: Skin color — not too dark, not too light.

c Ligaw tingin, kantot hangin: Courting by means of just looking.

Let the People Know

Although Auntie Bettina said I could be a scholar if I only tried, I was surprised to get the highest grades and to be eligible for free tuition in the next school year. There would be two months of Brotherhood inactivity; we would not have any demonstrations till June or July when the universities would be full again and most of our members had returned to Manila from the provinces. I also found out that I had a talent for Spanish, and I studied it in the summer session, determined that after those two months — by June — I should at least be able to understand and converse a bit in it.

My determination was wrought out of anger. When I met Betsy, although I had already had a year of Spanish — grammar and such — I still could not speak the language. She was born to it; her family spoke it at home, together with English, Visayan, and Tagalog.

Now I also had a clearer image of the class against which we were pitted. I did not have to take political science or sociology to understand this. Instinct sufficed. Even in school, I knew my teachers, like Professor Hortenso, were different.

I tried attending to the rules, and it was not difficult, for these rules could be bent to accommodate friends, and I could, myself, assume a color to their liking. That is what we learn early. But I had been aware of what I was doing and I always had to be cautious with those I did not really know, particularly those who might be able to do me good. I was not worried about being harmed — how could anyone hurt me or drag me farther down from where I was?

But with Betsy I was never cautious; I just opened up, innards and all, as if I had known her all my life. She was a junior at Maryknoll, and like most Maryknoll girls, she talked too much.

We were invited to a seminar in Tagaytay in April. I had organized the Brotherhood in the University so well that I knew every class leader by his first name. It was difficult at first, remembering so many faces, attending meetings and working in the Barrio at the same time. But there were fringe benefits; the free seminar was one of them. By then, I was also being invited to speak before students in forums outside my university. There was nothing, however, as lavish as this seminar — a live-in and an opportunity to meet other students for one week. A Jesuit was the seminar leader, but it was Americans who financed it; perhaps they hoped to influence our thinking, although I don’t see how they could possibly do that, for students usually have fixed views.

We assembled in Plaza Miranda at nine in the morning and boarded a bus. It was a sweaty drive to the other end of Manila, then through browned fields and small, scraggly towns; we went slowly up, past coconut groves, pineapple patches, and blooming fields of daisy. All the while the green heightened, the air freshened, and then, suddenly, we were up, and below was this shimmering blue lake dappled with sun and, in its middle, a green island.

Betsy was not with us in the bus; her family had taken her by car to Tagaytay. We gathered in the lobby of the lodge and registered. Afterward, as I was wandering at one end of the lodge grounds, looking at the volcano in the distance, I saw her.

I could not miss that face, those dark eyebrows, those eyes. It was Doris, the girl from the Makati Supermarket whose friend had been one of my customers. My immediate impulse was to run, to want the earth to swallow me up so that she would not see me and broadcast that I was a pusher, but how could I ignore a girl like her? Ever since I gave up the job Kuya Nick proffered, I was often nagged by this intense desire to go to the supermarket on the appointed time just to see her and perhaps talk with her, but there was no point; she was a million miles away from where I lived.

Then, gathering courage, nerve, steel, and such, I strode up to her and said, “Doris …” softly. She did not turn. “Doris,” I said louder.

She turned around, surprised, then she broke into that smile that I always loved. “Pusher!” she cried, then pressed her hand to her mouth and looked around to see if anyone was within hearing.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Selling more dope,” I said. I looked at the name card on her blouse. “Liar,” I said. “I always thought of you as Doris.”

She looked at mine. “And I always thought of you as Toto,” she said.

We both laughed and asked simultaneously: “How have you been?”

“You first,” she insisted.

“Well, as you know, I did not last a week in that job. The money was very good, but not enough.”

“You wanted to be the big man yourself,” she said.

“Yes, and get to be a millionaire like your father. I am still trying.”

“I missed you the following week,” she said. “Somehow I knew you would not last. You are much too open, and therefore vulnerable.”

“Spoken with wisdom. And what happened to your friend?”

“You should meet her,” she said, gushing. “On my birthday, she will be there. Promise to come.”

“I promise.”

“She has become stout — and that is a problem, she thinks she is fat. She stopped way back. The week that you did not come, I told her mother. We took her to a doctor, to a psychiatrist. It was also a form of rebellion against her parents and a desire to get attention from them. What I suspected all along.”

“What are you, a head shrinker?”

“Psychology major. But … what shall I call you? Jose?”

“Everyone calls me Pepe. Beatriz?”

“It sounds awful, doesn’t it? Betsy. It sounds better.”

“Betsy, it is wonderful seeing you.”

“Same here,” she said, holding my hand and pressing it.

We walked to the main building, my head light, the world aglow. She was the prettiest in the group, but I had not seen her legs in Tagaytay. She was slightly bowlegged, but her legs were not ugly; as a matter of fact, they made her look sexier.

All through the seminar, she wore two pairs of jeans, one really faded denim that had begun to break at the knees, and a brown corduroy pair that was also faded with use. Her formless katsa blouses were almost always buttoned up to her neck, and the only decor she wore was a touch of lipstick and that beautiful scent — Tabu, she told me later. Her shabby clothes, however, could not hide her prettiness, and once, during the meeting, she noticed me admiring the fine line of her jaw; I was embarrassed when she leaned over, a twinkle in her eyes, and whispered: “Caught you!” Much later, when I met her mother, I was quite sure that if she did not watch out, when she got married and raised children, she would be as round as a volleyball. When I told her this, she merely laughed and said she would not care, for by then she would have already bagged her man.

The fifty of us were from all over the country, and five were Muslims. About half were girls and most of them were pretty. She asked what school I came from and I said DM; that really perplexed her, so I explained, “Diploma Mill — you know, one of those downtown universities.”

And she said, “Why are you so apologetic and defensive? I haven’t started to work you over yet.”

She said Maryknoll was an elite school, all right. Still, though you could have all the money in the world, if you did not make the grade, you would be expelled.

We listened to dull speeches every day, one in the morning and another in the afternoon, then we would break for discussions. She did not speak much at the discussions, but could put away long-winded speakers with dispatch. There was this show-off from UP who commented for more than fifteen minutes on Philippine-American relations after the guest speaker that day — a writer of considerable background and knowledge — talked about the American sugar quota and its support of the oligarchy. The UP delegate was a nice fellow, but he merely repeated what everyone already knew, and Betsy waved her hand to interrupt him. When he paused, she simply annihilated him: “We all know how much you dislike American imperialism. Will you please tell us how we can dismantle it?”

He was flabbergasted, but Betsy had summed up our feelings, and we applauded her.

At dinner that evening — we always sat together by then — I told her, “I will not permit you to dispose of me like that.”

“Then,” she said, “don’t make stupid speeches.”

I told her about Father Jess, and she was surprised that I was living with him. Yes, she knew Father Jess — her mother came from the same town as his in Negros. Father Jess’s family was wealthy — in sugar like they were — but he was the black sheep, and the planters did not like him for taking the side of the seasonal workers.

“And on whose side are you?” I asked her pointedly.

“Don’t generalize,” she said curtly. “If not for this seminar, I would be in Negros now. I teach kindergarten for the children of our workers. They get paid very well, and they go to a hospital if they are sick.”

“I don’t believe you,” I told her bluntly.

She was angry. “Come with me,” she challenged. “I am not saying there is no injustice; all I am asking is that you not generalize.”

“Behind every great fortune is a great crime,” I said, remembering Balzac.

“We are not criminals,” she shouted.

We parted on that, the friendship turning awry.

When I got back to the Barrio, I asked Father Jess about her family, about their hacienda. He merely grinned and, two days later, a messenger arrived with an invitation for me to attend Betsy’s birthday party. In her note, she said, “Please don’t fail to come. You promised. Our drug addict will be there. I will be going to Negros and won’t be back till the beginning of the school year.”

“You are moving up in the world,” Father Jess said.

It was my first visit to the Park, and I tried to make myself presentable. I had thought of cutting my hair slightly shorter — it went down past my nape — but I liked it that way; trimming it would be too much of a sacrifice for Betsy. I decided just to shampoo it instead. I now had a barong that I had worn only twice and a new pair of dark, double-knit pants. My shoes were scuffed, but I inked them black then shined them.

At the kumbento door Tia Nena approved and Roger said I did not look like a Barrio boy anymore. I took the bus to Makati and then a taxi to the Park.

We drove through an acacia-shaded street and, at its end, the Park gate, where a blue uniformed guard stopped us. He looked suspiciously at me, then asked where I was going. I gave him the number on Tamarind Road. He noted down the taxi plate number, asked for the driver’s license, then told us to proceed. I cursed him under my breath.

Now I was here, in the gilded precinct of the oligarchy. Now it was all before me, around me — the ivy-covered walls — and through the grilled fences and opened gates, the truculent magnificence of wealth. These are the monuments to untrammeled greed, I knew, but they were lovely to look at, they were impressive in their pretension.

In one of our meetings we had talked about the Park — how convenient it was as a symbol of the oligarchy, how easily it could be taken over. Someone said it should be razed to the ground, but I had thought that was a stupid idea, all this wealth, all this comfort turning to ashes when we could, in some future time, have all of it, and these beautiful homes would then be vacation houses, the dachas of the proletariat. A demonstration against the Park was in the air; it certainly was in my mind. Such a possibility must have frightened its denizens, for, in the first big demonstration that year, they were so scared that they left their homes to be guarded by their hirelings while they trooped to the Makati hotels and waited for the demonstrations to ebb.

They need not have feared, for there was no demonstration against the Park. The demonstrations were in the crowded and poor districts of the city, in Quiapo, in Santa Cruz — places where the rich would not be. In retrospect, we missed an opportunity to confront our enemy. Were we afraid? We knew that, behind those high walls, there were guns against which we could not pit anything except our flesh and our numbers. Or if we were not scared, was it because our leaders were not really with the masses whom they said they championed? At heart, were they with our exploiters? It was so easy to demonstrate against the Americans — they were omnipresent for all to see, and they did not really fight back.

I could not explain why this was so, but I had seen it, what happened in Diliman, at the state university campus, when our cadres finally blockaded it and started manning the checkpoints. They did not stop the air-conditioned cars or demand that the passengers alight to be searched. No, they stopped the buses and the jeepneys instead, the public and dilapidated vehicles that carried the masses.

All through that tumultuous year, it was also the poor shopkeepers in Quiapo, Malate, and Ermita whose windows were stoned and whose stores were looted — not the big department stores in Makati, not the exclusive boutiques of the culture vultures of Pobres Park. I knew even then that there was something basically wrong with our demonstrations, and I would have been critical, but by then, to contest what we were doing was to confront the leadership. I was not prepared to do that, nor was I ready to be labeled a deviationist.

I got off two blocks from Betsy’s house, which was easy to find. It had a low adobe wall and its wide yard was planted to palm and dwarf mango trees. A guard let me in.

The stone driveway was lined with well-trimmed santan hedges that were in bloom, and the garage at the far end, which was open, contained three fat American cars. Betsy’s Volks was parked in the driveway.

It was one of those pleasant, balmy late afternoons, the sinking sun still shiny on the beige marble walls of the house, on the narra paneling and the blue-tile roof. The invitation was for five o’clock. I was thirty minutes late. I walked across the wide, red-tiled porch, and before the massive, ornately carved wooden door I was awkward and self-conscious. I pressed the doorbell.

It was Betsy in jeans as usual. “Happy birthday,” I said, but she did not shake my hand; instead, she stepped back, appraised me, then exclaimed, “Pepe, you are handsome!”

My ears burned, and before I could remonstrate she grasped my hand and drew me into the wide cavern that was the de Jesus living room, refreshingly cool in the April heat. The house had central air-conditioning.

It was suppose to be a birthday party, but there was no one there except a maid in white who peeped in from an open door. To my questioning look Betsy was all smiles; she guided me to an overstuffed sofa and we sat down. “My relatives will not come till after six-thirty or so. I thought that if you came early we, you know, we could talk.”

“About what?”

“About imperialism,” she said with a laugh.

I grunted.

She asked if I was hungry and I lied. She went to the kitchen and a maid in a white starched uniform came out immediately with two glasses of orange juice. I downed mine in a gulp.

She wanted to show me the garden, so we walked out into the last vestiges of day. The sun glinted on the palms, on the dwarf mangoes that bore fruit, bunches of luscious green that sagged to the ground. A wide, well-groomed garden with potted roses in corners. Across a small rock formation, hidden from view by jade vine pergolas and, from the street, by a screen of yellow-green Chinese bamboo, was the swimming pool. There had to be a gardener employed full-time to take care of such a spread.

“I did not like the way we parted in Tagaytay,” Betsy said.

“Me neither.”

“Why did you have to be mean?” She sounded disconsolate. “I did not do you any harm.”

She was right, and it was gracious of her to have invited me, to have told no one that I was a pusher, and I did not even bring her anything — what could I give to someone who has everything?

“Sorry,” I said. “I hope we can start a new chapter.”

“Would you like to come to Negros?”

“I cannot afford it,” I said. “Besides, what would I do there? I have to work in church … especially now that Toto is gone.”

I had not told her about Toto, but now I did, and when I was through, she bit her lip and was silent. “Don’t you believe me?” I asked. “It was in the papers. His name.”

“Oh, Pepe,” she held my hand tightly. “I believe you! I believe you! I was there!”

I wanted to embrace her then. “You fool!” I cried. “You could have been shot, too!”

She looked at me, wordless, and we could have talked more, but cars had begun to fill the driveway, and we hastened back to the house. It was now dark and the huge chandelier in the living room bloomed. I was left alone as Betsy welcomed them — mostly relatives and, just as she told me, about a dozen of her classmates, some with their boyfriends. She singled out a girl, good-looking but a little chubby, and brought her over to where I stood apart from them all, and said, “Belinda, this is Pepe; you have something in common — both of you are addicts.”

She smiled, showing upper teeth in braces, and taking me by the arm, she guided me to a corner dominated by a huge Chinese vase with blue dragons. No one could hear us. “How long have you been at it?” she asked. “Betsy told me her boyfriend was on drugs.”

I grinned and did not know what to say.

“We started together, you know, but she did not like it. Then she told my mama, and we had to go to a doctor. Did you have difficulty stopping?”

“Not really,” I said. “Just a little willpower.”

“And that is what I don’t have,” she said. “Now I am addicted to food. I am very fat, no?”

“You are not, Belinda,” I said. “You are very pretty — even with your braces.”

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Come,” she took my arm again and drew me to the dining room where the buffet table was ready; no one seemed anxious to eat except us.

They call it merienda cena—some fancy name for afternoon tea or snack, but it was a Rabelaisian spread, giant prawns already shelled, tenderloin strips, fresh asparagus sautéed in butter, finger sandwiches, several dip bowls of eggplant, tomato, and avocado concoctions. On one side were a variety of cheeses I had never seen before, including our own white cheese in its banana leaf wrapping.

Belinda did not bother with a plate and neither did I; we just idled around the long table, picking up pieces of fried chicken, mussels baked in butter, slices of sweet ham and turkey. And the fruit trays at the other end of the table, together with the assortment of pastries and sweets, simply overflowed with big, red apples and grapes of ebony and rose. I had never tasted grapes before, and now here they were as I had always imagined them. If I were nearer Cabugawan, I would certainly pocket a bunch for Mother.

I do not think Belinda noticed it, nor Betsy, how I ate very fast so that, in just a while, I had already tasted almost everything on that table that I had never eaten before, while close by was this gushing talk in Spanish, Visayan, and English.

Then, a tall, handsome mestizo in a gray suit, in his fifties, accompanied by a fat, waddling mestiza of about the same age came in. Betsy rushed to them, kissed them both.

“Happy birthday, hija,” the man said, bending over and kissing Betsy on the cheek. She came to me, took me to them, whispering, “Papa and Mama.”

Betsy’s father shook my hand, so did her mother.

“We met in Tagaytay during that seminar, Papa,” she said.

“May I know your name, hijo?” Mr. de Jesus asked, his eyes wandering up from my newly shined black shoes to my mane. His wife, her diamond pendant earrings flashing, was studying me, too.

“José Samson, sir,” I said.

“Samson … Samson. Related to Antonio Samson, the writer?”

“Yes, yes, sir,” I stammered. “An uncle.”

“Ah, no wonder,” Betsy’s mother smiled, her double chin quivered. “You reminded me of him. As a matter of fact, you looked just like him then, except for the long hair. I knew him. My husband, too. His wife — she was my best friend. I even stood as witness at their wedding. What a girl she was. You know, she died not long after the death of Tony. Did you ever know her? I don’t think so.”

“No, Mrs. de Jesus,” I said. “I know very little about my uncle’s life.”

Then without warning, Mr. de Jesus talked to me in Spanish and, when he paused, I looked at him, bewildered. “I am sorry, sir, I don’t speak Spanish.”

“But Tony did,” Mr. de Jesus said. “And he wrote in Spanish, too.”

“He went to Harvard, sir,” I said. “My school is in Recto.”

Mrs. de Jesus looked at me again, then at Betsy, and to her she spoke in Spanish; I could not get every word, but it was obvious she was talking about me.

Betsy blushed and seemed uneasy, and when she replied, it was in English: “Mama, the educated man does not even have to go to school. Education is not Maryknoll or Ateneo — or even Harvard—”

Mr. de Jesus took it from there, and from the drift of their conversation, as he wheeled around, followed by his wife, so that they could greet the other guests, I knew that they had dismissed me, that they did not want me in Tamarind Road again.

Betsy followed them, waving her hand, her face grim as if she was on the verge of tears, then she came back to me. “Djahe^*—djahe,” she said, “and on my birthday, too.”

“They do not like me,” I said softly.

“Oh, Pepe, don’t say that,” she beseeched me. “This is my party, and I invited you.”

“But they are your parents and they mean much to you.”

“They cannot select my friends,” she said angrily.

“Don’t tell them, but I must leave,” I said quickly and headed for the door.

“Pepe, please stay. I want you to meet my other friends.”

“From La Salle, Maryknoll, and Ateneo,” I said.

She held my hand tightly as we walked to the door. It would be an unlit, gloomy distance to the gate of Pobres Park and then to the bus station, and my shoes were newly shined.

“How was the party?” Father Jess wanted to know.

I did not want to rail against Betsy’s parents. “Very good, Father,” I said.

“Then why the hell are you back so soon?”

“I was ill at ease. I did not know anyone there except Betsy.”

“You will get to know more of that class,” Father Jess said. “And if you study hard, someday you will join them.”

“That is not so grim a fate, Father,” I said.

As I was serving him coffee after supper, I asked if he had any books in Spanish.

He was surprised at my new interest. “No, but I can teach you a bit if you want to learn.” Then, as if lightning struck, “Ha, the de Jesus family impressed you! Now you must learn their language!”

I did not speak.

“It is always good, Pepe, to know what people are saying. Henceforth,” he said, shaking a finger at me, “I will talk to you in Spanish.”

Tia Nena came in with a piece of banana cake she had baked. And for the first time I also heard her speak in Spanish.

In the morning, as I was serving in the six o’clock daily mass — a chore I took on since the death of Toto — going out of the sacristy, I looked at the attendance, which was always small except on Sundays, when we had three masses and the church really overflowed, and there, in the front pew, was Betsy. I could not imagine how she had come at such a time when she should be asleep. When mass was over, Father Jess greeted her and asked her to join us at the kumbento. But Father Jess knew she did not come to Tondo to hear mass. He left us alone.

She was in her usual jeans. “I came here to see you,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said. “But there is really no need, Betsy. I understand everything.”

“No, you don’t,” she said.

I did not want to talk about her party, her parents. “How did you get here?” I asked quickly.

“You gave me your address, didn’t you? I simply asked the driver who came here with the invitation to give me directions.”

“And you came alone and so early?”

“Yes,” she said. “I parked down the vacant lot. I couldn’t get in.” She meant the deeply rutted main street that had yet to be asphalted.

“You can get robbed here, you know. And raped.”

“I had to see you,” she said simply.

I hurried with the broom as she stood by. When I was through, she said, “Let me invite you to breakfast. Please.”

There was no running away from her, and I followed her to where she had parked. She drove a little recklessly, but it was her style. She was a good driver. I did not ask where we were going, I was completely in her hands. She drove up Bangkusay, alive with the riot of children, through Herbosa, then Juan Luna past the Tondo church toward the North Harbor. She drove confidently as if she had been in Tondo all her life.

“This is where the Katipunan was born,” I said. “Even now, this is a radical district. Do you know that during the Huk uprising, there were gun battles here? We have a neighbor who was a Huk commander — more than twelve years he was in jail.”

She turned to me and smiled patronizingly. “I read history, too, Pepe.”

“Now you are castrating me,” I said.

She gave my leg a playful blow then she slowed down. We were now traveling along the line of interisland ships and to our left was a monotonous huddle of shacks similar to what we had left. The smell of copra, of refuse, hung heavy in the air. We approached Del Pan, and I wanted to point out to her the squatter huts on the left side of the bridge, their flimsy roofs held in place by rocks, but I asked instead, “Sociology, too?”

She nodded, giving my leg another playful blow. Then we crossed the bridge; but for the crumbling Intramuros walls and more squatters in the moat of Fort Santiago, we were out in the open, in another country — Rizal Park, Roxas Boulevard, the well-trimmed green, the tall whitewashed buildings.

She turned left, heading to one of the tallest buildings on the boulevard with the initials VDC on the roof, glittering at night in blue neon. Behind it was a huge shaded parking lot, and after she parked, we went to the elevator in the front. The girl who operated it greeted her. “To the restaurant, Miss de Jesus?”

“Oh, Cora,” Betsy frowned. “When will you ever call me Betsy?”

We shot up to the top floor and a doorman in a black jacket over a white frilly shirt and black bow tie opened the door, bowing. “Good morning, Miss de Jesus.”

It was the most luxurious place I had ever been to. The chairs were hand-carved and upholstered in deep blue. The tables had lace tablecloths and silver vases with red roses. The carpet, in paler blue, was wall to wall, and on the walls, which had fleur-de-lis designs, were Philippine paintings — part of the collection of Don Manuel Villa, which, Betsy later told me, had been started and influenced by my father. Crystal chandeliers dropped from an indigo ceiling, and though it was warm outside, I was almost freezing. Three waiters in black jackets with white gloves came forward, but Betsy ignored them; she guided me, instead, to a corner where the drapes of velvet blue were raised by blue braids, and we had an unimpeded view of the bay and the city. The building was not more than ten years old, one of the newest and the tallest, and from twenty stories up, Manila looked neat and clean. Even Tondo, beyond the dark swath of the Pasig, its houses roofed with dull red, seemed antiseptic.

This was the headquarters of the Villa Development Corporation, the giant conglomerate built by Don Manuel Villa, my father’s father-in-law. He had worked here, and if he were alive, he would be here now, handing crumbs to his poor relatives. This was a haven for mestizos — they were given preference because of the lightness of their skins, their capacity for speaking Spanish. Indeed, as Professor Hortenso had said all too often, the higher up you go, the more sugary and whiter it becomes. Now I was here in the bastion of the oligarchy to which my father had attached himself. I wondered how he felt being with them, if he even remembered that he had come from an anonymous corner called Cabugawan.

I knew a little of Betsy by then, enough to realize that she did not bring me here to impress me. The waiter asked what we wanted, and though I had not had breakfast yet, I was not hungry anymore. But she was insistent.

“All right then,” I said. “A cup of coffee and pan de sal.”

The waiter looked at Betsy and smiled.

“Pepe,” she spoke almost in a whisper. “This is a French-style restaurant … they even have a French chef from Marseilles. There is no pan de sal.”

My ears burned.

“… but you can have croissants.”

The coffee came, black, steaming, and thick. Betsy started, “I quarreled with Papa and Mama last night, really, even before all the guests had gone. Papa was angry — oh, not at you, Pepe, please believe that — at me.”

Perhaps she thought I knew her father was general manager of the corporation. “No, you don’t have to worry about him coming up here and seeing us. He left early this morning for Zurich and New York.” She stared at her coffee. “Pepe …” almost in a whisper, “I know how you feel, so please do not make it difficult for me. Perhaps one day, when you become a father, you will not be different from Papa. He does not know that I am a member of the Brotherhood, that I go out with people—”

“Like me,” I added quickly.

She smiled sadly then went on, as if she was talking to herself. “But last night, we also talked about … about your uncle. Carmen Villa, his wife, was Mama’s best friend, you know, and they shared many things, girl talk, that sort of thing.” She turned to me again, her eyes bright with expectation. “You must have read The Ilustrados,” she said.

I shook my head.

“You should — shame on you! Aren’t you proud it was a relative who wrote it? How unfortunate that he is not around. I would have wanted to write a paper on his book, the ideas there. He was very right, you know, about the Filipino elite collaborating with all who are in power or those who are about to be. The last chapter — the nature of the elite — how perceptive he was, how he exposed what had been destroying us from the very beginning.”

“You are making a speech,” I said, unimpressed. “You said I should be wary of speeches.”

She shook her head and laughed. Her omelet had come, and the croissants, which I knew were some pastry, turned out to be a kind of pan de sal, brown and soft.

She was undaunted. “What Antonio Samson wrote is very relevant now. Now!” she slapped the table. “If we are going to have change, there must be some purity to it. It means leadership from below, the lower classes, nothing else. Only in that way will it not be destroyed. The elite will subvert it. That is why, for all his protestations, I mistrust Juan Puneta. His grandfather was one of them.”

I did not speak; the remark that was in my mind was obviously anticipated by her.

“I am burgis, an outsider, you know that,” she said. “But my feelings are not with my crowd, Pepe. Believe me! The poor do not have a monopoly on that sense of outrage.”

“Profound statement of the day,” I said blithely and, looking at the antique clock at a corner, added: “Made at exactly eight forty-eight A.M.”

She breathed deeply and sighed: “Now you really have devastated me.”

I reached across the table and almost spilled the goblet of water, held her hand, and pressed it. She pressed my hand, too, then slowly withdrew it. The waiters were looking at us — the only people in this ritzy restaurant this early.

“How can I tell Puneta he is full of shit?” she said angrily. “I have no authority. He has a Ph.D. from Cambridge. He makes all those speeches. And he contributes generously to the Brotherhood.”

“We will use him,” I said.

“No, he has power, money, brains. He will use us,” she said simply. “Already, he is very close to Malacañang. He wants to be ambassador to France because he speaks French and because he is also good-looking — that is what the First Lady likes. He will get the job. And he will throw lavish parties, which he likes to do, and he will spend plenty of money that his minions earn over here.”

I have read how our ambassadors have so little to spend. “At least he is Filipino,” I said, “and he will be spending his money for us.”

She looked at me incredulously. “Oh, Pepe! You have so much to learn. Puneta is Filipino only because he holds a Philippine passport. He is Spanish, his loyalty is to Spain, where he salts his dollars. Do you know that he has a housing-development in Mallorca? And his wife is Spanish?”

I shook my head. This was something Professor Hortenso had not told me.

“All the Punetas,” Betsy was saying, “since way back, have sent their children to Europe at the age of puberty so they would not intermarry with mongrels. Here, they are Spaniards, but in Spain, they call themselves Filipinos knowing that being a Filipino there opens doors. That is what Papa says. At least we — This is our home, Pepe. Even if my parents … they are so burgis. So very burgis!”

“They cannot do anything about that,” I said, trying to sympathize with her.

She did not seem to hear. “Something in me rebels against them,” she continued softly, “even against myself. Believe me. But I love them, Pepe. I really do!”

“We cannot be but what we are,” I said.

The wistful, somber face, the slow shake of her head. “Please don’t misunderstand. It is not guilt feelings. I like being comfortable, and I am happy that I am, as you would say, on the other side of the fence. But I also know what is on the other side. It is so easy to say that I did not make this world the way it is, that my responsibility is first to myself, and with this I would then be able to justify everything. But this also means that I have to be blind, and deaf. And these I don’t want to be. But what can I do, Pepe?”

“Be true,” I said. Platitudes, clichés. “I love my mother, too, but I don’t like her pushing me on to college, being somebody I don’t want to be.” I meant every word, and at that moment, I wondered what Mother was doing, knowing how it was in Cabugawan at this time of day, the sun bright on the leaves of palms and bananas, the day alive with the grunt of hogs, the mooing of carabaos. “Still,” I continued, “whatever she did, whatever she does, you don’t know how much I love her!”

She bent down. “My mother wants to protect me — from you … something like bad luck.”

“The poor are always bad luck,” I said harshly.

“Pepe, please do not be angry. I would not be telling you these things if …” she paused, picked at her omelet. “It had something to do with Carmen Villa, with how she died. Do you know what happened to her?”

“No,” I said, “and I do not care.”

“She became insane and she just, well, just died slowly, not even a year after her husband died. Mama, she says Antonio Samson … he committed suicide — that was what Carmen Villa believed, that was what she told Mama. What a waste … what a waste! Do you know how he died?”

It all came rushing back. “Yes,” I said, almost choking on the word. “I stayed in the room where he had lived for years, used the very bed where he had slept. And every day I would look out of the window at those infernal tracks where he was killed. And I could imagine him lying there in several pieces, I could imagine him …” I could not speak anymore as angry thoughts swooped into my mind.

“If only he were alive,” Betsy said, “I would like to go to him, ask him for help. And explain. I want to belong, Pepe, to help. To do what is right. I would tell him that the ilustrado class need not be condemned. I would tell him not to generalize. And because he was such a brilliant man, he would understand, he would know.”

“Betsy,” I said, raising my voice so that the waiters turned to us. She was startled and I was taken aback at the vehemence of my feelings. I gripped the table’s edge, bent over to her, and said calmly, “Antonio Samson, he did me, he did my mother wrong. He was not my uncle, Betsy. Antonio Samson was my father.”

* Djahe: Ashamed.

Down with the Burgis

I decided never to see Betsy again, to avoid her if she came to the Barrio, so I wrote her a letter, worked over it one night:

Dear Miss de Jesus—, [she would immediately get the irony of that greeting]

How I wish there were words adequate enough to express my gratitude for your kindness in inviting me to your house and to that French restaurant. I want to thank you, too, for visiting me here in the Barrio, for trying to explain things as they are. I know that there are situations [like ours] about which we can do nothing; I know that oil and water do not mix — it is in their nature and these are what I [not you, you really want to go against your mama and papa] must live with. There is, therefore, no point in my wanting to see you again [although God knows, I want to see you again, your pretty face … your lips, how nice you look when you pout! Hell, am I falling in love with you? It is Lily whom I love, or maybe Lucy. It is true then, men are really polygamous — bastards that we are] but I hope, in the foreseeable future [ha, you are an optimist, after all], under different circumstances, I will be able to meet you again. I do not want to say good-bye — there is no good-bye between friends. [Hypocrite, you don’t want to be just friends with her; you want to slip your hand up her panties!] You know sociology so you understand what I am really trying to say. I am deeply hurt [for once, I am saying the truth], more than you will ever know, but it is enough that I have known you, your graciousness, your friendship.

I kept it for some time and decided that I could do a Spanish version of it later. I was learning quickly.

By June I could converse a bit in colloquial Spanish with Tia Nena. She occupied the room next to the one Toto and I had shared and had heard us talking. I suppose there was little we had discussed that she did not know. She came with Father Jess to the Barrio and was called Tia Nena from the very beginning by everyone, and that was what I called her, too, although Lola would have been more appropriate, for she was in her seventies. But she was still sprightly and hardworking. Father Jess had asked her to stop washing his clothes — Lily’s mother could do it — but she did it just the same, even Toto’s clothes and mine, which had embarrassed me no end, so that once I changed, I washed my clothes immediately.

I never got to ask Father Jess if it was true that he salvaged Tia Nena from the Psychopathic Hospital in Mandaluyong; but if she was insane, it could not have been a serious dementia, for there was nothing in her behavior that was unusual, nothing but her reluctance to talk about herself, her mumbling before her stove about her sons. “My Luis … my Victor …” over and over again.

I went to her once and asked, “Tia, what were you saying? Victor? Luis?”

She turned abruptly to me, a faraway look in her eyes. “I had two sons,” she said, in a voice that was almost sepulchral. “One was white, the other was black …”

“I have two hands,” I tried to humor her, “the left and the right.”

She went back to her cooking as if I were not there at all.

Toto’s death had affected her. Sometimes she came into our room, looked at the things in Toto’s cabinet, and shook her head. Father Jess told me to use Toto’s clothes — we were, after all, about the same height — but I could not, I simply could not. So one day, Father Jess put them in a cardboard box and said he would give them away, but Tia Nena retrieved a shirt, a pair of pants, and together with Toto’s pictures and notebooks, she put them in a plastic bag with naphthalene balls, then sealed everything in a milk carton, and put them atop Toto’s empty cabinet.

When she was young, Tia Nena had worked for a Spanish family as a maid. Her conjugation was correct. She knew English, too, though she seldom spoke it. I was learning Spanish from her better than in school; I was sure that, by the opening of the school year, Mr. Ben de Jesus could no longer insult me to my face.

Being the new managing editor of the school paper meant an increase in pay — two hundred pesos a month. My partial scholarship was also made full; my grades had been very good, and now I started researching Philippine history, even going to original sources in Spanish. I went to see Professor Hortenso more often, not only for his books but for advice. I did not, however, tell the world that I had crammed on my Spanish. I was never a show-off. What could I be proud of? I was much, much older than most of my classmates — a sophomore at twenty-four, I should have a degree by now — and it embarrassed me no end when I thought of Betsy. She was a senior, she would be graduating at the end of the school year, and I would be there for another two years.

I did not see her for two months. I would not bring her malas—bad luck — like her mother had surmised, the way my father had brought malas to Carmen Villa. When she came back, however, we were simply fated to see each other again. I was now a member of the Educational Committee of the Brotherhood; Professor Hortenso was its chairman. We had to meet twice a month, often at Hortenso’s house — just eight of us — not only to map out the information campaign for our growing membership but also to counter the now insidious propaganda of rival youth organizations that envied us, and the fact that thirty-three of our members had already succumbed to Metrocom and police guns. We kept this roster in all our publications to illustrate how committed we were.

A week after my appointment as managing editor, Professor Hortenso invited me to lunch. Mrs. Hortenso had cooked goat caldereta and I felt guilty, eating like a hog because it was very good; it may have been for their supper, too. “But there is more, Pepe,” she said when I hesitated after the third helping. She stood up, went to the kitchen, and brought out the pan, which was, indeed, still half full.

“It is my favorite, Mrs. Hortenso,” I complimented her. “And you cook very well. The only other cook I know who can do it well is Tia Nena in the kumbento.”

“I always knew priests ate well,” she said. “Maybe you should add Juan Puneta to your list of caldereta cooks. He said once, didn’t he, Dad,” she asked her husband, “that his caldereta is excellent.”

Professor Hortenso continued eating. “You don’t have to believe everything he says,” he said under his breath.

“Ha!” Mrs. Hortenso exclaimed. “Look who’s talking. You believe everything he says.”

Professor Hortenso looked up from his plate and glared at his wife. I did not want to witness a family quarrel, but I could not stand up and leave.

Mrs. Hortenso was undaunted. She turned to me, wanting me to be her ally. “I hope you do not misunderstand, Pepe,” she said. “I believe in these things you are doing, else I would not want to live here,” she cast a condescending look around her, the unpainted and grimy adobe walls, the naked lightbulb above us, the cracked cement floor, the cheap Binondo furniture. “He finished with honors, you know — the first Filipino to do so at Cambridge. He — You know, we are not poor. And he was offered a good job here with a British company — old-boy ties … fraternities, that is what you call them here.”

“Please, honey,” Professor Hortenso said, “don’t talk like this.”

“But he refused. He refused help from his parents. He refused to teach even in the State University where he would be getting twice what he is getting now. Teach at the diploma mill, that is where he feels he is needed. And I agree with him, of course. Over there at UP, those pampered rich, they do not need an education.…”

“Honey,” Professor Hortenso protested again, “please, don’t make us look like martyrs.”

“But we are,” she fairly screamed at him. “Living here; the kids not going to the best schools, you working yourself to death — and that bastard Puneta taking all the credit for the articles and speeches you write for him!”

“Please,” Hortenso raised his voice, “this has gone far enough.”

I was now all attention for Mrs. Hortenso, for her mobile, pretty face, the eyes flashing fire. “Pepe, do you know?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t listen to my wife, Pepe,” Professor Hortenso told me, a wan smile on his face. “She is tired and …”

“I am not tired,” she hissed at him. “And I am not angry at you or at Pepe. Here,” she thrust the plate of caldereta toward me; I took another helping.

“It was he who wrote Puneta’s doctoral dissertation. And what did he get?”

Professor Hortenso flung his arms in the air in a gesture of futility.

“Nothing. Nothing! And Puneta promises and promises. And what does he give the Brotherhood? Why, my husband gives more of his own money, his time. I give more …”

“Don’t brag, honey,” Professor Hortenso said.

“I am not,” she said, glaring at him again. “I am just stating the truth. How much have you spent for those pamphlets? Remember how I went to Papa and got money so that you could have the last pamphlet released from the printer? Remember?”

He had given up; he merely smiled and let his wife speak on. “A beggar who gives five centavos gives more than the millionaire who gives five hundred pesos!”

Professor Hortenso looked at his watch and rose. “Pepe, we will be late,” he said. Our meeting was at three, but it was only one o’clock. I stood up reluctantly, for I wanted to hear more about Juan Puneta. I would ask Lily when I got back, and this time, I would ask for details.

Mrs. Hortenso, now calm and serene, followed us to the door and dutifully kissed her husband on the cheek. “Dad,” she said as we stepped out, “it is going to rain.”

A darkening sky, clouds that obscured the sun since morning. We were both optimists. We walked to the boulevard to save fifteen centavos because from there we could get a jeepney that would go directly to Taft. We had time and Professor Hortenso wanted to talk.

“I hope you will keep to yourself what my wife told you,” he said.

“Is that what you want, Professor?”

He nodded. Then, after sometime, he continued wearily, “I have been bothered by people like Puneta in a very profound way. You see, he belongs to the oligarchy, but he is educated, he has liberal ideas, and is willing to help. He has helped.…”

Silence. We were nearing the boulevard. We would have to cross and walk a little distance to Central Market and get our jeepney there.

“I know it could be very wrong, that he is merely using us,” he said pensively. “There is enough warning, enough literature on the subject. You know, the most impressive is your uncle’s book, particularly the last chapter.”

I knew what else he had to say, and I was no longer listening. The elite, the masses not making revolution, collaborating with those in power …

We crossed on the overpass. “But we have to be pragmatic,” he continued firmly. “We cannot say we will reject their money because it is not pure, because it is tainted. Besides, we get to know their weaknesses so that they will not subvert the revolution as they did the last time. The important thing is that we — you and I — we know. If we are careful, we will not be fooled as they were fooled in the past!”

We got off at Taft and walked toward the bay, but as his wife had warned, it had started to drizzle, and the drizzle turned into driving rain that clattered like pebbles on the tin roofs and marquees. We ran up Herran and stopped in a souvenir shop on Mabini, where we hoped we could get a taxi to Roxas Boulevard, to the Puneta Building.

When we got there finally, we were half an hour late and dripping wet. I had not expected Betsy to be a member of the Educational Committee, and when she met us at the foyer and shook my hand, Professor Hortenso smiled. “Well, it is good to know that you know one of your committee members.”

We went up in the elevator to the eighth floor, Betsy asking me in a whisper why I did not write to her; I told her I did but had not mailed it.

When we got to the office of Puneta — one of several — she whispered again. “After this I want to talk with you. Let us go some place where we can be alone.”

The rest were already there, drinking coffee and eating neatly chopped sandwiches of cheese and ham. I was still full of caldereta, but I ate again.

Juan Puneta, tall, mestizo, always cracking his knuckles, welcomed us; he was particularly warm to Professor Hortenso, whom he called Nonong, embracing the professor as if he were a long lost brother.

The meeting did not interest me, but I was fascinated by Puneta, by his mannerisms, and I tried to find out what in his very masculine features was the clue to his homosexuality. I could not find any. He moved about with machismo and decision. In spite of his lips, there was nothing effeminate about his voice, his intonation. He dressed elegantly, but that was because he could afford it. His fingernails were not manicured. No jewelry adorned his fingers, just a simple gold wedding band. Had Lily made a mistake?

I noticed Puneta looking at me and I turned away. We were talking about reaching more people, spreading the base of the Brotherhood, even making alliances with other groups.

Betsy was taking notes and putting in a word or two, but I was soon far away, thinking of my meeting with her parents and wondering where we would go tonight. I looked at her, bent over her pad, at her finely molded face and at her full breasts under her formless katsa blouse.

Puneta snatched me from my reverie: “Pepito Samson — he has not contributed anything yet. I am sure he knows a lot, what with his background, where he lives.”

Professor Hortenso turned to me. “Well, Pepe?”

I must have looked bewildered.

“Any suggestion you can make about broadening our base? Reaching more young people? You organized that chapter in Tondo; surely you must have ideas,” Puneta pressed.

I did not have to think; I remembered Ka Lucio. For a month now he had not been working. He had tuberculosis, as Father Jess and all of us had suspected, and was at home, resting … on what?

“I think we can learn from the past,” I said. “We have a neighbor, Ka Lucio. He was Commander Puti — he is sick now — spent twelve years in jail. He knows a lot. We can learn from him and establish links with men like him, and his followers, and the children of his followers. They are ready to join us. We have, I think, been committing mistakes, like emphasizing ideology and politics when we should be winning members, winning them on the basis of their needs. As for education, it is the leadership that needs it, but as Ka Lucio said, the Huk movement was strongest when it was facing an enemy, a real enemy, whether it was the Japanese or the Constabulary that pillaged the villages.”

“We should also be able to identify those enemies who are lurking in the background, who wear the masks of friends, who steal our souls with kindness or with promises,” Professor Hortenso spoke evenly. “I am, of course, referring to the Americans — just in case you have forgotten.”

I recalled the Directorate sessions; I did not want to disagree openly with him, but it was best that I spoke my mind. I owed him this.

“I cannot accept this form of anti-Americanism, Professor,” I said. “The Americans are not a problem as such. Just look at the hordes at the American embassy every day. Filipinos wanting to immigrate. I would rather work in an American firm than in a Filipino company. I know Americans give better pay, privileges, and I can aspire to a very high post with them. Not with the Spanish mestizo companies. I am not one of them.” I was explicit. I wanted Puneta to know.

“I know what you are going to say,” Professor Hortenso said. “But we have to look at our struggle in a broader perspective.”

“First things first,” I said. “We cannot take on the world. And besides, once you have gotten rid of the oligarchy, it should not be difficult to push the Americans out. The experience of other countries illustrates this. And even if we had a revolution and won in the end, what would we do? We would still have to produce and sell — sell, yes, to America.”

“It is not just for the reason I mentioned,” Professor Hortenso continued evenly. “We have to recognize our being part of Asia, our being Asian.”

“But Asia means backwardness,” I said. “Monuments, religious tradition — why should we worry if we don’t have these? We should be able to create them ourselves. What is an ancient culture embellished with ritual if there is no freedom in that society, not enough food? We will create the new culture, and thank God we will not be shackled by the past.”

“Except that the Americans have shackled us to their concepts, their megalomania.” It was Betsy who spoke.

I had not intended to defend the Americans. They are such a big target and could not be avoided. They are also an overwhelming presence. Wherever one turns, they are there, with their technology, their brands, and their malaise. They are, it is true, an obstruction to legitimate nationalist aspirations, and they don’t need Filipinos to defend them, least of all a self-seeking escapee from that limbo called Cabugawan. They can do that very well with their own hirelings in the elite schools, in Pobres Park — the nationalist bourgeoisie whose fortunes are entwined with theirs. Still, there are things that must be said, not in their behalf but in the interest of truth.

Puneta was very pleased. “See?” he was beaming, his white teeth gleaming, his mestizo eyes crinkling. “See? Really, Pepe, I should have a long, long talk with you. I should go over there and talk with your Ka Lucio, too.”

“Isn’t American imperialism real?” Betsy interrupted Puneta.

“No doubt, no doubt,” I smiled at her. “But the people are pro-American, Betsy. Look at me: I have no ill feelings toward them, toward anyone. But I hate whoever was responsible for the death of Toto … of our thirty-three friends. Whoever killed them is the enemy.”

“Go beyond that,” Betsy said.

“I can. But my friends in the Barrio — their concern is food and jobs. They are not political.”

“We have to be political.” She was insistent.

“I don’t disagree. But even in my university— I don’t know about the schools of the oligarchy.”

“Don’t be patronizing,” she said sharply. It was now she or I.

“I organize on the basis of friendships, on being Ilocano. Most of the students are not really interested in demonstrations, except that they mean no classes. Do you know what their interests really are? To pass, to be able to get a degree, and after that, a job. Politics is a luxury of the rich.”

“This is reverse snobbery,” Betsy countered. “Are you saying that the masses do not need political education?”

“I am the masses,” I flung at her. “Do you want my credentials?”

I had pushed her into a corner, and she scowled at me. I had the floor to myself, and I did not give it away.

“Yes, everyone needs to be politicized, not just the masses. But we are talking about organizing and winning a broader base. This comes first if we are to have the sea. And we can build this sea around us first by talking the people’s language — not the language of conference rooms and seminars. And this language is warm, earthy. Many of my friends in the Barrio,” I continued slowly, “have not even finished grade school. When I organized the chapter there I had a broom—ting-ting, that I used in sweeping the church floor every day. I detached one midrib and snapped it and I said, see, alone, singly, how weak it is? Then I held out the broom to them and challenged anyone to break it. This is what unity brings, I said. Strength, usefulness. And they understood immediately. That is why we were able to get cement for the basketball court. Now we can play even in the rainy season. And we painted the multipurpose center, too. All of us. We are proud of these.”

They were listening eagerly. They were all hopelessly burgis; what did they know about living in Tondo?

“Any day,” I continued, “I can get more than fifty young people from the Barrio. Fifty! You cannot go there and make speeches and expect them to follow you. Do you know that all sorts of politicians go there and make speeches? What makes you think you’re any different?”

They did not speak.

“Look, even Father Jess who has lived there seven years feels they don’t really accept him. And he is right, and not because religion has become very impersonal. We all know that priests are not poor, that they are not really like us. But I–I have been there only a year and I can raise, like I said, fifty followers at any time. Not only do I live there, but I also fight with them. I give them milk, relief goods — though these are not mine. I have taken them to restaurants, got drunk with them. You don’t need speeches in Tondo.”

“There should really be a way for those from the villages who have gone to the cities and become other than what they were — successes, you know — they should go back to the barrios, to their roots …” Juan Puneta spoke to no one in particular.

I could not let it pass. “Sir, I am no success, but do you mean I should go back to my village in Pangasinan? That is unthinkable! Why should I? Life in Tondo is harsh, but life in Cabugawan is harsher. That is why I am here, this is the reason the farmer would sell his only carabao to send his son to college. If he had a chance, he would not be a farmer.”

This was what Auntie Bettina and Mother had hammered into me, I wanted to tell them, for now, more than at any other time, all that I heard from them came with ringing clarity.

“You are saying then that once we industrialize, once we have a chicken in every pot, there would be no need for revolution, there would be no problem even in organizing people,” Professor Hortenso concluded.

“We will organize so we will have a chicken in every pot,” I said. “But we are incapable of truly uniting. It is not just the ningas cogon, the lightning enthusiasm that dies once the speeches are done with. Look at us. How many youth organizations are there now? It is not the Americans or the oligarchy whom we really hate most; it is those who do not belong to the Brotherhood. We call them clerico-fascists, deviationists, CIA agents. And God, we are fighting for the same cause! It is just that our names are different. How many organizations are there of lawyers, teachers, doctors? Perhaps as many as there are people who want to lead them, people who cannot go beyond their petty personal ambitions, who think they are the only true bearers of light. You find this thinking in the village, so we use the techniques that are useful in the village, but the leaders, Professor, they should be able to go beyond the psychology of our villages.”

Betsy now spoke with passion: “But why do you have to look down on the village? At least, even if the people there are poor, they and the village have a certain integrity.”

I did not let that pass. Briefly, there swooped into my mind the miserable lives that I have known in Tondo, the unending violence, the latent viciousness under the gloss of neighborliness that everyone seemed to exhude.

“Betsy,” I faced her, shaking my head sadly. “Thank you for the kind thought, but that is a lot of bull.” She turned away, and I was immediately sorry I had spoken so harshly.

“Sorry for the language,” I continued contritely. “But I just want you to know there is no honor among the poor. In the Barrio, who are the thieves? Our own neighbors who take the laundry we hang outside our hovels. They steal them to sell to secondhand clothing stores. It is not the cats who get the fish we dry on our roofs; again, it is the neighbors who have nothing to eat. The Barrio is full of cheats, liars, drunks, sadists, perverts — and yes, we steal, we cheat, we lie because we don’t know where the next meal will come from. We grab what we can, from anyone. I ask you not to look at the village, at the poor, with rose-colored glasses. There is nothing romantic about poverty. It is totally, absolutely degrading.”

When the meeting was over Professor Hortenso sought me. “Pepe, that was a revelation! We will have to rely more on you.” He was complimenting me, and I was uneasy, for I did not like speeches even though they were mine, and most of all, I did not relish being a politician.

I did not want to leave with Betsy, but I had made her angry, and I wanted to tell her I was sorry; also, I was not resolute enough in my plan to avoid her. It was dusk. As we eased into the rain-drenched boulevard, she said: “I really should have kept my mouth shut, but then …” she laughed slightly. “If I did, you wouldn’t have opened up. It is all in my notes, Pepe. You said much more than a lecture on political science.”

Were we going again to that fancy restaurant? “No,” she said. “We are going to Angono.”

The rain had stopped, but the acacia trees still dripped and glistened in the fading light. The asphalt was as black as the thoughts that crowded my mind. Juan Puneta had drawn me out, he had made me speak against my wishes.

It was as if Betsy had divined my thoughts. “And I noticed, too, that Puneta was looking at you,” she said, glancing at me.

“Do you like him?” I asked.

She was silent for a time. She shifted gears as we neared the traffic lights at Padre Faura. “I don’t trust him,” she said.

“How can you say that of someone who has helped the Brotherhood generously?” I asked. “We have just eaten his sandwiches.”

She turned to me sullenly. “I suppose this is a personal feeling. He is very slick. There is something in his manner that is not sincere. I can feel it in his voice, in the way he conducts himself — as if he were studying everyone so that he will know how to use them. But my father— We once talked about ethical business practices. I remember Papa saying Puneta’s flour company mixes cassava flour with wheat. Oh, I know that he should not be singled out.… I also hear he has a private army, what with all the guns he has. And that is no secret.”

“He goes around without a bodyguard,” I said, knowing that many wealthy Filipinos did not go to public places alone.

“He does not need protection from us,” Betsy said. “It is us who need protection from him. Did not your father warn us against men like him?”

I did not speak. I wanted to banish Juan Puneta into some unreachable corner of my mind. I wanted only the nearness of this girl in this rain-washed night that now bloomed with neon lights and the last purples of sunset. The clangor of traffic was around us, and it was a long, crooked way to Angono, but nothing mattered anymore. We crossed over Nagtahan, took Santa Mesa to Cubao, then turned right to EDSA. The road to Angono was jammed; it took a full hour to reach the environs of Marikina. We did not go to Angono, however; instead, she turned left onto a private paved road and continued until we reached the golf club to which her family belonged. She asked if I was hungry. I was, so we went to the restaurant and ordered chicken and ham sandwiches, which she asked the waiter to wrap up. Back in her car, we went through a gate with a sentry and up a slope, through ascending paved roads that traversed empty lots given to weeds till we reached a promontory. She stopped. Below us was Manila spread like a vast, splendored carpet; a million lights twinkled, jewels flashing in the soft dark. Overhead a jet whined in its descent.

“It is beautiful,” I said. “You don’t see the dirt.” I held her hand and she let me.

Then I was suddenly apprehensive; I was not armed, and though I knew a little karate it was not enough. “Isn’t it dangerous here?”

She smiled. “No,” she said, “this is patrolled and no car can come up here unless you pass the gate.”

“I am worried just the same,” I said.

“Don’t be,” she said. “I always come here when I am troubled and I want to think. I know this place very well — it belongs to my father.”

I was immediately silent and she noticed it. “I did not mean to brag,” she said quietly.

It was hopeless. What was I doing here with a girl who was beyond my reach? “Betsy,” I finally said, “I am not lying; I did write to you, but thought it better not to mail it.”

“And why not?”

I had to tell her. “I said good-bye to you in that letter. I was determined not to see you again. But I am a weakling, always have been. And this afternoon, when I saw you, God knows how happy I was.”

“I was, too,” she said simply.

Then I told her, but not about Lucy or Lily. “There is another girl.”

She bolted up, turned to me quickly; her eyes were expectant.

“I suppose you may say she was my first love. I grew up with her. She is dark, not fair like you. But you have her eyes—” I looked at her, “Yes, you have the same eyes as Ramona … clear, dark, brooding … but when she smiles, it would seem like daybreak.”

She turned away. “You must love her very much,” she said softly. “Will I ever meet her?”

I laughed. “You will never meet her.”

“Is she … is she dead?”

“No,” I said. “She is very much alive. I can see her now.” I closed my eyes and held her hand tighter. “But I can only love her in my mind. It is impossible. Like you, she is up there, and I, I am down here. Still, it is wonderful to be with you like this. Thank you for taking me along.”

“Why compare me with Ramona?” There was a sharp edge to her voice.

It was then that I told her of Mother’s humming the song “Ramona,” how I imagined Ramona hovering over me, unreachable like her.

She leaned closer. “This place is real,” she said. “The view may look unreal, but we know it is there. I have never brought anyone here or invited anyone before.”

“No one would believe we are here,” I said. “And it is just as well, for this is not really happening, except in my imagination.”

Her breath upon my face was warm and sweet. “But I am real!” she said huskily.

I touched her face and kissed her, her hair, her eyes. Softly.

We would have tarried, but I told her, although it was not true, that Father Jess and I were going to make a house call.

On the way back she was quiet; words could build walls between us so that this would never happen again. She wanted to take me to Bangkusay, but it was late, and I did not want anything happening to her. I got off at Mandaluyong, where I could catch a bus for Divisoria, and she went on to the Park.

The Placard Is Bloody

It was not really my desire to sit at Ka Lucio’s feet and learn from him the odious truths of the past, but I had brought his name up at the meeting and I would be asked questions about him. I had not been to his house again, although it was just across the alley, since Toto and I visited him. He often smiled when I passed. He would sometimes be out in the churchyard sunning himself or talking with the older men in front of the small sari-sari store of Roger’s father, but he had never gone to church although he did talk sometimes with Father Jess.

This morning I walked over to his house after I was through with my chores. His two nieces were out, and he was in the kitchen, cooking. He appeared paler, but not once during my visit did he cough. “Ah, my young brother,” he said when he turned to the open door and saw me. “Come in and make yourself at home.”

He joined me in the cramped living room and asked if I wanted to watch television, but I barely looked at the set in the kumbento.

“No,” I said quickly. “I came here — I hope you don’t mind my learning from you.”

He appeared pleased; with a wave of his hand, he said, “All that I know I’ll try to impart to you.”

“Some of us,” I said, “have decided that the time for revolution is now.” And if it comes, we would not surrender — this was what we had talked about. Why did he give up? After all those years fighting the Japanese, then the Constabulary? Was he tired, was he disillusioned, and where had his surrender brought him? This shack?

He looked at me, his eyes bright with understanding. He spoke softly, as always, without bitterness. “I must tell you — if this is the only thing that I can tell you — that this is not the time.”

“There would never be another time, and if you tell me now that we should wait, I tell you that we cannot. If the time is not ripe, we will help make it ripe. To believe otherwise is to have no faith.”

“Big words,” Ka Lucio said. His benign smile made me uneasy. “But what are the facts? I thought my time was the right one, too. But where did it get me? And how many years were wasted in remorse that I cannot express? But do not tell me that I had fought in vain, that I did not take one forward step.”

“We will make it three,” I said.

“No, you will be making three steps backward and only two forward. This is not the time. The people are not ready to accept violence. Do you know what they want? Just peace — peace so that we can continue our miserable lives. More than that, the Americans are here. They will interfere. The oligarchy will convince them your revolution is Communist even if it is not. And the rich … they are very strong, they are in power, in government. Where will you get the guns? The money? You will have to get them from the rich, and in the end, they will lead, not you. No, this is not the time.”

“Rizal said that, too,” I said. “Did you ask yourself when you went to the hills if it was time? Did the Huks get money from the rich?”

Ka Lucio bowed, as if in deep thought. “Everything you say, it all sounds familiar … very familiar.”

The pot in the kitchen started to hiss and boil, and he jumped up and took off the lid. He was cooking rice; when it had simmered, he returned to me

“Yes,” he said, “it is all very familiar. And I cannot argue against passion. There is no reasoning against the heart. But remember, Pepe, we fought the Japanese, an alien enemy. You will be fighting your own people, your own brother.”

“He is worse,” I said, “because he is brown like me. The Japanese were foreigners.”

“You are saying all that we said. So we did not fight our brothers — and we got tortured and killed. If you must do it, do not forget: the pain cannot be endured. The pain …” he went on as if in a reverie: “Sometimes I wish I had died long ago in those hills. Of malaria, of hunger, of bullets. It does not matter. I courted death many times. I had seen my comrades die — three of them in my arms. I know when life finally ebbs away and the body grows limp, and the heart throbs no more. Though the eyes remain open, they no longer see. I know …”

He turned away as his voice cracked. He breathed deeply, shuddered, and with his palm, wiped off the tears that smudged his face.

“But I loved life — no matter how bitter, no matter how harsh. I would wake up at night out there in the fields and look at the stars and listen to the sounds in the darkness. Everything would be very quiet. I could hear my heart, the voices of the dead. And when I woke up at dawn, I knew there was some reason for me to go on living, not merely because I loved life, but because I have lived through many dangers and I could, perhaps, impart some of what I have learned. Life is a learning and not much more. It is not loving because there is more hate in this world than love.”

“What have you to teach us then?”

“First, stay alive.”

“And live long enough to be disillusioned? Or despised?”

“Yes. And do not commit the same mistakes we made — and there were many of them.”

“What are they?” I was anxious to know. I was assailed with doubts from the very beginning. I had talked too much, I realized that now, without knowing the books, relying on my own intuition as if that were enough.

“The first,” he said, “is that while violence is necessary, it is not the only instrument for change. There are others just as good. But you must accept violence — you cannot begin to build until you have destroyed. You don’t know love until you have hated.”

I knew that and aloud, “Yes, yin-yang.”

“What did you say?”

He did not know what I was talking about. “Night and day. Yes, Ka Lucio, I understand.”

“No, it is more than that,” he said. “You must destroy the rotten foundations to build a new edifice. You must know how to identify and hate injustice before you learn to value, above all, justice.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your enemy,” he said coldly, “is the rich. You must be able to tell them that to their faces. And when you point the gun between their eyes, you must do it without passion — or compassion. Do it as duty, do it to survive.”

I thought of Betsy, my Betsy, her burgis parents. I could not do what Ka Lucio was saying. But Toto— Remembering him brought the old anger back in all its primal force.

“And to survive,” Ka Lucio went on, “you have to be cunning. Know human character. The evil around you. The poor are not saints, as you can see. You will see perfidy,” he was emphatic. “You will see it again and again until it has become so common that you think the whole world is against you. And you will not only be confused, you will also be angry at what you consider your poor judgment. You will see an enemy behind every rock, you will suspect every smile, every gift — and this is not as it should be. For in spite of the perfidy that may surround you, there is always goodness and even sacrifice, sometimes from those you least expect it. There will be men who will give their lives not just for the purposes you believe in, but for you — for you personally — not so much in friendship but in loyalty.”

“How will I recognize betrayal?”

“You cannot. Nor will you be warned, unless by some intuition you know that something is going to happen. Feelings are easy to hide. It is not like poverty, which you cannot hide. And when it happens the first time, you will be so surprised it happened at all. It will take some time for you to recover from it, that is if the treachery has not disposed of you physically.”

“What makes men traitors?”

Ka Lucio shook his head. “How can I tell? A hundred reasons, as many as there are men and causes and leaders. It could be envy, money, a woman, pride, hurt feelings, or just plain human cussedness.”

“Tell me about the first time it happened to you,” I asked.

Ka Lucio’s thin face darkened. He shook his head slowly as if wanting to dam the flood of memories that had come. Then, almost in a whisper: “It is too painful to talk about,” he said. “In that ambush, if we had not been more alert, we would all have been killed. But my wife was not so fortunate.” Again, silence. “How did they know we were going to take that route, on that day, at that hour? It was not luck. At least a dozen men knew we were going to pass that way and at least half of them were not with us. So, if you are to lead, lead alone. The general idea you must relay to everyone, but the details you must keep to yourself.”

“But that is so basic, Ka Lucio,” I said.

“Yes, but we forget the basic things. We become overconfident; we think we have done right. It is the details, the small ones, that get us.”

“How did you lose your caution?”

“You live with people. You share the same dangers every day. You think you can trust everyone, you become vulnerable. You start pouring yourself out. You are flattered — oh, not the obvious kind, but small things that imply you are doing well and you are loved. You are the source of all wisdom, of all hope. Without you the whole effort crumbles. The salvation of the group — no, the whole country — depends on you. These make good wine and soon you are drunk. Not so much in believing these things, but knowing that you are esteemed. Respected, ha! That is the final accolade. We really do not look for love from people; we look for respect. Love, that is reserved for the gods. Those who are loved can expect to be hurt and be forgiven their mistakes. That is the nature of love. But those we respect — they are harsher, more demanding. We lose respect for a man and that man is dead. It is enough, I think, that we are believed.”

“How do you avoid deception?”

Ka Lucio was silent again. “I do not know,” he finally said. “I suppose there is no way one can avoid it. But there is one way by which one can make deception and perfidy not the end, but the beginning. I think that with our brothers we should be sincere. Love and respect everyone so they will have little cause for anger. This means looking at their problems in their minutest and protecting them from the embarrassments that come with their shortcomings. Be a strict disciplinarian but compassionate in the dispensation of punishment.”

“You cannot do that,” I said. “Punishment is always harsh, or it isn’t punishment.”

“But one can forgive.”

“And lose in the end.”

“No,” Ka Lucio said grimly. “That was what the Communists did, and they lost. I was against discipline without compassion, but they said no. They executed one of my commanders for being away from his post — iron discipline, they said. And do you know what he did that they knew but could not forgive? He went to his village to visit his wife who was going to have a baby — their first. It was unfortunate that in his absence there was an encounter. They also executed one of my aides. He was short of funds, it is true, but what they did not consider was that he had given the money to a brother whose wife was going to have an operation. You have to know the details and look at them with your heart, not with a book of rules.”

“Still, you lost in the end,” I insisted. “Like the Colorums, maybe you believed the entire country would rise with you. The same with the Sakdals^*—they believed they would also have the whole nation with them merely because most of our people were poor like them.”

“We did not win that particular struggle,” Ka Lucio said, “but as you very well know, we have formed a continuity, a tradition. We did not really lose. We were just humiliated. And I will tell you why they were able to batter our defenses and sap our strength. They used our ideas, our words, to win the people who were our best friends. No, they did not defeat us; it is painful for me to admit and count one by one what we inflicted on ourselves. They had only to offer a little reward, the promise of some land no bigger than a man’s palm. They only had to come with a few artesian wells, a few roads, and a few tins of sardines — and the people were bought. You see, we offered them less in their eyes, although in their minds they knew it was more. But what is a man’s life that would be sacrificed for them? Honor, courage, loyalty — these are all very good, but they cannot buy a ganta† of rice, and that is what they needed. Not beautiful words for their stomachs nor beautiful thoughts for their brains. A Mexican — Zapata, I think — once said, ‘Better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.’ You’d be surprised how many would rather eat gruel on their knees.”

Back at the kumbento, I mulled over what Ka Lucio had said. Always, Betsy came to mind, her defenselessness when I said “I am the masses.” Was she the enemy? How could I ever think of her that way? She was in the same demonstration as Toto and me; she could have been killed like two other girls who were in that same demonstration. There were many questions I wanted to ask her, but I kept them to myself, flattering myself that she wanted me for what I am. She was the only one, aside from Toto, who knew Antonio Samson was my father; was she really convinced that he had committed suicide? And if she was, would she want to have a malas in her family, too? She would be a masochist if that was what she wanted. I had to see her again, my arms ached to hold her again. She was the dream I could never afford; if she gave herself to me, it would be charity.

Charity — then it struck me! She attended to me because she pitied me, and I could not accept that from anyone, not from Professor Hortenso, not even from Father Jess. For the first time at this old age of twenty-four, I found out that I did not want it, would never want it, that I was José Samson, strong enough to be alone, to fling damnation at everyone. I may have come from world’s end — Cabugawan — immersed myself in stench, stolen, and lied, but I am me, honest with myself. That is all I had to be; when I saw her again, I would tell her. Suddenly I felt a great desire to go home.

My desire was prophetic. As I was serving Father Jess’s lunch, Roger came. “There is a woman looking for you, Pepe,” he said. “She was all over the Barrio, looking for the church — and you. She says she is your aunt.”

Father Jess told me to prepare another plate and have her come in and lunch with us. I expected Tia Betty, maybe with a letter or an important message from home, but it was Auntie Bettina, and when she saw me, she broke down immediately.

“Pepe, your mother is dead.”

It was as if someone had struck me; my stomach churned and became a bag of cold air, my feet became pillars of lead, and my breath was being choked out of me. “No, Auntie, no!” was all I could mumble. I should cry, but no tears sprang to my eyes, only this dazed feeling, this heaviness upon my chest. I am a worthless son, an ingrate — the most terrible loss — I was not my mother’s son but the worthless bastard that I am, because I could not cry.

Tia Bettina did not eat. “I am sorry, Father,” she said. “I have to go back. There is no one at home but the neighbors and distant relatives.”

Father Jess — I will always be indebted to him — stood up without taking his dessert. “Eat quickly, Pepe,” he said. “I will go to your town with you.”

I was going home after two years, and in those two years, I had perhaps written only ten times, telling her what I was doing, that I already earned a little money, that she should no longer save for me. I even sent her a copy of the essay that had won me a job on the school paper. I never told her of the demonstrations that I had participated in, of Toto being killed; I never told her that I now knew who my father was.

The bus was not crowded, for it was a local run and not the express to Dagupan. Father Jess and Auntie Bettina sat together in front; I had the seat behind them to myself, listening, Father Jess telling her about the Barrio, what I did, that I had become a scholar. Her eyes became swollen from crying, but she turned to me, smiling; yes, I had not disappointed her after all, and Mother, too, if only I had told her.

“He speaks a little Spanish now,” Father Jess was saying. “He is a student leader … and he attends parties in Pobres Park. Didn’t you know all this?”

Auntie Bettina turned to me again. “You never wrote to us about these,” she said. “If your mother knew, she would have been happier.”

I was immersed in my own grief, going over the things I should have written to Mother, what I would have bought for her — the electric sewing machine, a gas stove such as the one Tia Nena used, and yes, a bed with a mattress, not the old rattan bed that hurt her back. A bed with a mattress.

Bits of their talk came to me. Auntie Bettina was telling Father Jess that there were no more Samsons left in Cabugawan, just she. There were relatives — second cousins, third cousins, tenants — in the other barrios. All had gone — to Mindanao, to Palawan, and, of course, to Manila.

Father Jess was saying, “You are good-looking, why have you not married?” and she said, “No man ever proposed …” and Father Jess teased her, “No man is perfect, Miss Samson. If he does not have athlete’s foot, he has dandruff; if not dandruff, it’s bad breath. And sometimes, it is all three!”

Tia Bettina laughed, that delightful, silver laughter, then they were quiet again.

Father Jess’s huge head was in the way and I could not see the road ahead. But it did not matter — the monotonous green of the rainy season, the small towns with their plazas and their main streets plastered with soft-drink signs, the pompous churches of the Iglesia ni Kristo, the battered schoolhouses. Then, in the dimming afternoon, the plains of Rosales spread to our right, and beyond, the mountain of Balungao, greenish blue in the distance. Again, memory: the edible snails, the string of green papayas I brought back and Mother reproaching me for being away all day without her knowing. I had lain under the trees in the foothills, listening to the wind in the grass, the murmur of the water over the shallows, to my heart.

I tapped Father Jess’s shoulder and pointed to the town far beyond the line of trees on the horizon, its yellow water tank thrust like a knob of gold. “Cabugawan there, Father,” I said. “And that mountain — I used to go there.”

We stopped briefly at the Carmen junction but did not get off; the bus was headed for San Nicolas, all the way to the Caraballo foothills, and it would pass Rosales. Vendors crowded around the bus, thrusting bundles of coconut candy, rice cakes, and bunches of eggplants to us. Rosales was five kilometers away.

The town had not changed — the smallness of it, the rundown market, the plaza with its solitary kiosk and tangle of weeds, and the statue of a farmer with a plow before the unpainted municipio that people said was burned by Grandfather long ago. We got off at the bus station and walked.

“Our house is very small, Father,” Auntie Bettina was saying. “And no real bed.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Father Jess said.

It was not a long walk; we came to the wooden bridge that spanned the creek. The waters were muddy brown and sections of the bank had caved in. We walked on and the houses now were infrequent, then we turned to a small side road, really a lane, flanked by cogon-roofed houses, their yards planted to fruit trees. I knew everyone here.

Our house came into view, the split bamboo fence falling apart, the buri palm sidings now frayed and weathered, the cogon roofing disheveled where the last typhoon had messed it. We should have had the whole house roofed with tin, but there was not enough money, so only the kitchen roof was galvanized iron. The front gate was planted to hibiscus, the narrow lane graveled, flanked with purplish hedges of San Francisco. People were in the house, mostly neighbors and second cousins whom I recognized. They met us smiling wanly, and I shook their hands. Distant aunts kissed me. They smelled of betel nut and sun and I kissed their brown, gnarled hands, then went up into the house.

Mother was in the middle of the small living room, and I went to her at once, bent over her, and kissed her cold cheek. Her face was careworn and lined; a strand of hair lay on her forehead and I brushed it back into place. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep, the lips pressed together but not grimly; her hands were folded, clasping a small wooden cross — those hands that worked the sewing machine — and though I wanted to cry there was only this tightness upon my chest.

The women were cooking rice in earthen pots in the yard. One went to Auntie Bettina and told her there was not enough coffee and pan de sal for the night. She gestured to me, and we went back to town. We did not have time to talk before; all I knew was that Mother had had a heart attack, that she was sewing when it happened, and she fell from her stool.

There were many things I never knew and now Auntie told me — how Mother had suffered for years, how she had not gone to the doctor or bought medicine because there was no money, and the little there was she saved.

This I knew — Auntie Bettina did not have to say it. A month previous, Mother had an attack and for a week her left arm was paralyzed. Auntie Bettina wanted to write, but Mother had said, “No, don’t give him worries.”

“I never told her, Pepe, that you knew,” she said. “If you had to know about your father, it should have been from her. And last week she felt that, perhaps, she was not going to live much longer … so she wrote to you. She let me read it; I wanted to mail it, but she said, no, this Christmas, when he comes home.”

Father Jess was more than kind; he gave Auntie Bettina three hundred pesos — three hundred pesos! — for the wake. From Ming Tay’s grocery, bags of cookies, tinned milk, and three bottles of powdered coffee.

I read Mother’s letter in Auntie Bettina’s room. It was on a ruled school pad. Some parts of it were in Ilocano, but most of it was in English.

My dearest son,

I am very happy that you are now doing well in Manila. I have a little money saved so that you can finish your studies. It is my dream that someday you will have a good job and will no longer know the poverty that was all I could give you. I love you very much, my son, and I am very sorry that I cannot do enough for you. Most of all, it was my fault that you had to grow up alone — and never knew your father.

You have seen the scrapbook in the chest, you have read it. I had kept it because the man who wrote it was your father. We did not sin, Pepe; it just happened that we were cousins. We loved each other and, to this day I love him, his memory. As you grow older, my darling son, you will understand. If we did not get married, if he did not come to claim you early enough, it was my fault and you must forgive me. I did not know you were coming and to tell him would have destroyed his chances — chances that would never come again. He went to the United States and, when he returned, it was too late. Do not hate him as you hated me, and I hope you will learn to love and respect his memory not because he is your father but because he is a man you must look up to. I am hoping that you will grow to be like him so that you can leave Cabugawan, too.

Let me now tell you what has bothered me all these years. When he died, I went to see his wife. I did not ask to see her; she had sent someone to look for me. I was not prepared for her; she was ill, she was dying, but she was all smiles when I was admitted to her room. She motioned everyone to leave so we could be alone. She said she was deaf and that I should write everything down. There was a sadness in her voice and she spoke softly; she said she was happy that she had finally seen me. Tony, she said, had always loved me and, for that, she always envied me. Both of us were together for both of us had loved him. Tell me, she asked, what can I do for your son.

I told her I could take care of you and she smiled and said, “Yes, I knew that would be your reply.” Then I told her that I did not think Tony’s death was an accident, it was clear as day, and she looked at me and started to cry and she looked so frail and helpless, I went to her and held her hand to comfort her.

“I drove him to it,” she said, “and now I must pay.” I am not blaming her, but how could I tell you, my dear son, that your father took his own life? But I don’t think he did this because he despaired, because he was wronged. I think he did it to atone for what was done, to show at least to us who knew him best that he had not changed. He left us courage, and it was with this that I have tried to live, to impart to you as well. I hope that I have succeeded, for I am troubled by many thoughts, most of all, that I have not helped you enough when you are in need. Sometimes, I wish you were here where I can cook for you and wash your clothes, but to ask you to come back to Cabugawan is to deny you the future and the promise of better days that are yours by right, because, deep in my heart, I know you are very bright like your father. If only you tried.

And that is why I am very happy to know that you are now earning some money, that you are on your school paper because I know that my expectations have not been wrong. I love you, my son.

I read the letter twice; if she loved my father, honored his memory, I must respect her wishes. But it would not do for me to regard him as I did Mother, who had sacrificed for me. What had he done for us? What had he done to deserve my respect?

Auntie Bettina had said he was a good man, but his goodness was not imprinted in my mind and heart in deeds that I would remember. Still, he was my father and I must leave this letter in the chest with all the mementos that Mother treasured.

I could not sleep, for they played blackjack and dominoes in the yard the whole night. Father Jess slept well though Auntie and I were worried, for the bed in the room that he used had no mattress. At least it was a bed, and none of our neighbors had one.

We buried Mother early the next morning; all my relatives, our neighbors, and some of the women for whom she made dresses came. They sought me out and said I should study hard; they had all known of Mother’s dream, they knew I was earning my way through school. Auntie Bettina had a black shirt made for me, and she wore a black dress. We walked behind the hearse to the church and, after the prayers, we carried the plain wooden casket to the churchyard, where the town photographer took our picture, Auntie Bettina and I in front and our second and third cousins behind.

The five-piece beat-up brass band from Carmay played the Funeral March as we shuffled out of the church and headed for the cemetery in the southern end of town. It was quite a distance, past the creek, along a narrow road that had begun to muddy in places. Cadena de amor bloomed on fences and the arbol de fuego showered the road with reds, but in me was a blackness I could not hold.

At the cemetery Mother was brought first to the small chapel and the lid of her coffin was lifted. Old Bebang, a neighbor and a distant aunt, her black veil hiding her face, knelt beside the coffin and started to wail. She recalled how Mother had helped everyone, how selfless she had been in attending to her relatives, and she wailed about how Mother never failed to give her neighbors a bit if there was anything good cooking in our kitchen. Now, it would be a grim and desolate place she had left, for no one would be like her, no one could ever replace her. It was a dramatic performance, but there were no tears in her eyes when she stood up. Auntie Bettina followed after her, but she did not wail; she did not know how, I am sure. She just knelt beside the bier and wept silently. Then it was my turn; I kissed the gnarled, clasped hands for the last time, a cheek lined with wrinkles, and I looked at the dear face — how quiet, how restful Mother looked. I wanted to cry, but no tears came — nothing, nothing but this great and crushing weight upon my chest.

Before it was lowered into the pit, Father Jess blessed the coffin and said a prayer. As they eased the coffin down, Father Jess, Auntie Bettina, and I took lumps of earth and cast them on the wood. Mother, I said softly; forgive me, forgive me.…

We hastened back to the house where another distant aunt had prepared a basin of warm water at the foot of the stairs. We washed our feet before going up. There was coffee still and biscuits.

We were by ourselves finally.

“What will you do now, Auntie?”

“What is to be done, Pepe,” she said. “I will stay here, of course, and continue teaching in San Pedro. I may ask one of our relatives to come and keep house.”

“You can transfer to the city,” I said, “and we can live together. You will not be alone.”

“When you finish college and have a good job, I will do that. Just come here whenever you can.”

She wanted me to take the album Mother treasured. A hundred and twenty pesos was all that was left of Mother’s savings after everything was paid for, and Auntie had another fifty that she did not need. She thrust the money into my pocket, but I gave it back to her.

“Please tell Auntie, Father, that I am making enough.”

Father Jess assured her I was doing well.

Father Jess had brought out his leather shoulder bag where he put his missal, his holy water, and extra shirt.

I turned to the old sewing machine by the window whose sound I had grown up with, whirring late into the night, and beyond it, the begonia pots, now flowering. The old narra furniture, the battered bookcase, the stacks of magazines, the novels of Willa Cather, Faulkner, Camus, all of them, the Noli and the Fili and, yes, Don Quixote—the glass case where Mother had the finished dresses, and beside it, the old wooden chest, its top scratched and etched with my initials, which I carved when I was in grade school and for which I was whipped. Will I come back to this old, cogon-roofed house, will I return to Cabugawan where memory has chained me no matter how much I tried to flee from it? Why did I leave the way I did? It was all too late now to explain to her, and most of all, to tell her that if I came back — and I surely will — it would be to do penance for her who had cared as no one ever did. And as I stepped down just one rung, all the grief that had been dammed finally broke loose, and I sat down at the top of the stairs, unable to move another step, and my grief became sobs that were torn from me, from my chest, my heart, like they were flesh, and tears came to my eyes, burning and like a flood. I could not stop. I was crying, and I could not stop even if I tried; Father Jess’s hand was on my shoulder, Auntie Bettina whispering, “Pepe, Pepe—” but I cried on.

Back in Tondo two messages were waiting, and Father Jess said that I was a successful social climber because one was from Juan Puneta — he left his card with a note for me to ring him up at once. The other was from Betsy. Her letter, written on Father Jess’s stationery, was sealed. She said she was very sorry to hear about Mother’s death, that she would have come along, too, if she knew; that she wanted very much to talk with me about something very personal and very important, and would I please call her at this number that day or the following day and that, if she did not get the call, she would return to the Barrio.

Tia Nena said Betsy had come after nine that evening and seemed extremely distraught that I was not in. It was brave of her and risky — Tia Nena said she was alone — and I did not want her visiting us again. So at eight the following morning — she had said to call between seven and nine — I rang her up.

“I am sorry, Pepe, about your mama,” she said quietly. “I never knew her, and I will never know her now. I am sorry — is there anything I can do?”

I thanked her and said life must go on.

“I must see you immediately. It is very important. I hope you understand. Can you do it? See me?”

I was calling from a drugstore in Bangkusay; there was no telephone in the Barrio, not one. “I am here in Tondo,” I said. “I have work in church, you know that. And this afternoon, I have to go to school.” I did not want to be involved with her further. No, no pity from her or from anyone.

“Please, I can go there, now.”

“You are crazy,” I said. “Coming here last night. Did you come alone?”

She did not speak.

“You could have been robbed. I warned you before.”

“Shall I go there now?”

I did not want Father Jess to tease me about her. “No, I will go wherever you want,” I said. “Where shall we go this time? Back to that hill?”

“No, no,” she sounded aghast. “Anywhere but there.” She was going to pick me up, if that was all right, downtown, perhaps in front of the Avenue Theater. We discussed it briefly, then decided that it should be at the Recto entrance of the university.

When I got there, her mustard-colored Volks was already parked before a line of cars and jeepneys. She saw me and she honked several times, anxious that I would miss her. How could I — her car was so conspicuous.

She opened the door and let me in. “Thank you,” she said as we drove off.

“What is so important,” I asked, “that you had to go to the Barrio late at night?” Now I was really vexed with her. “Don’t you ever try that again. Do you know that I, myself, am uneasy there even in the daytime?”

She did not reply; she reached for my hand and pressed it. She asked me about Cabugawan, how it was, how Father Jess had reacted to my village. “He surely liked going home with you,” she said. She had made up her mind where we would go, for when I asked her what it was that she wanted to talk about, she said, “Wait till we get there.”

The bay, and I thought we would go to the French restaurant again, with its menus that I could not understand before but would now, for French is similar to Spanish, and in the back of my mind I thought I would try French the following year. But she did not drive into the compound of the Villa Development Corporation; she turned left instead, to the Malate church.

I thought we were going to hear mass, but she just parked in the churchyard, and I followed her to a nearby coffee shop in Mabini where she often went because a friend owned it.

The place was empty; the furnishings were native but elaborate, handwoven drapes, fine narra chairs, and I wondered how it could make money. The waitress in a bright green, checkered dress recognized her and took our orders — two hamburgers, two coffees.

“Neither Mama nor Papa comes here,” she said. I was wondering what she was implying and afterward I knew the reason for her anxiety, for our being together. “I am going to the United States,” she announced simply.

Perhaps it was best that way. “Good for you,” I said, really sorry that she was leaving. I would certainly miss her in spite of my resolve not to get involved with her.

“We will miss you in the Committee,” I continued. “Who will take down notes and ask those sharp, biting questions?”

“You are mean,” she said bitterly. “You don’t understand.”

“You are going to the United States,” I repeated.

“Aren’t you going to ask why?”

“You can afford it,” I said. “Should there be a reason? Shopping? Whatever it is.”

“Mama and Papa are sending me — immediately if that were possible. But since the semester is almost over …”

“A month more.”

“I will have just a month in Manila then. Just a month.”

“I would leave immediately if I were you,” I said. “Imagine, going to the United States.”

She bit her lower lip. “I’ve been there several times,” she said. Then, without looking at me, she continued quietly, “They think that by sending me there now, I will no longer see you. That is the reason.”

“What have I got to do with your leaving?” I glared at her. “I am nothing in your life. I am a nobody from the Barrio studying in that Diploma Mill. Have they forgotten?”

“Oh, Pepe,” she said, entreaty in her eyes.

I did not speak.

“Mama went to the club the other day. She goes there three times a week to play with friends, and the guard told her I had been there. She asked who I was with, going there at night, and he described you, long hair, wide forehead—” she smiled in spite of herself, “and good-looking. We had a nasty quarrel when I got home. She called up Papa in Zurich … and they decided right there.”

“What do you expect me to say?”

She bowed and was silent.

“It is your life, Betsy. I am nothing to you … nothing!”

She looked at me, her dark eyes imploring, and when she spoke, it was almost inaudible. “Pepe, I cannot go. I—” she had difficulty saying it: “I want— I want to be with you.”

The words lifted me up to the clouds, the vast, friendly sky, and joy filled me.

But this cannot be, this can never be. “Betsy,” I said evenly, “I want to tell you that I have thought about you. Every day since I first saw you, and when I kissed you …”

She could not look at me and, again, she bowed.

“But I know who I am. What do they say? Water and oil? No, it is much, much more than that. You will have a boyfriend, someone in your own circle. You will get married, and you will forget me, your flirtation with politics, the Brotherhood.”

She straightened, her eyes blazing.

“And most of all,” I said, “much as I am grateful to you, for your kindness, your graciousness …” I remembered the letter I had written. “Please, I don’t need your help, your pity, I don’t want it.”

“Pity! Pity!” she cried. “Pepe, it is not pity at all. No, it is not pity at all!”

I shook my head. I was determined. “It cannot be otherwise.”

Our hamburgers came, but we did not touch them, nor our coffee. The waitress saw we were having a very serious talk and hastily left us.

“What do you want me to do? Prove to you that it is not pity?” Her breast was heaving, her words were a torrent. “Let us go,” she said, and to the waitress she gave a ten-peso bill. She did not wait for her change nor did she take the hamburgers, which we had not touched.

I followed her to her car and we drove off, the tires screaming as she shifted gears and stepped on the gas. We tore down M. H. del Pilar, and at the end of the road, without warning, she turned right, into the entrance of the Hawaiian Motel.

I was too surprised to speak.

A boy rushed toward us as she slowed down. He pointed to an open garage door, and she drove straight to it, slammed on the brakes. In a while, the garage door went down and we were alone in the musty semi-darkness. She turned to me, her face still grim. “If it is proof you want, you will get it now. It is not pity. No, it is not pity at all.”

I had never been to a motel, although I knew how they operated on a short-time basis. She was now taken aback by what she had done for she hesitated, then asked, “Pepe, what will we do? How do we …?”

Our eyes locked. It was the first time for both of us, and we laughed nervously, self-consciously. A door at one side obviously led to the room upstairs. We went up the flight and opened the door to a small anteroom with a cheap, leatherette sofa, a table, and two empty glasses. Beyond was the bedroom, and, gingerly, we went in. A big double bed, music, the air conditioner turned on, and, on one side of the bed, parallel to it, a huge mirror.

Betsy and I laughed. The buzzer rang, and together we went out. The boy came up with a clean sheet, a white plastic jug of iced water, and what appeared to be a registration book. He seemed amused for Betsy and I began examining the book, the squiggles that passed for names.

“You sign your name here, sir,” the boy said, but his eyes were on Betsy.

I turned to her. “What will I put down?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Pepe Samson, of course,” she said emphatically.

I put it down like she said, in very legible script.

Address: Tondo, Manila. Residence Tax Number?

“I don’t have any,” I told the boy.

He smiled. “Any number will do, sir.”

I wrote down a lot of sevens.

“How much?” I asked.

“Short time, sir?”

I looked at Betsy. “How long is short time?” she asked.

“Four hours, miss.”

“Mrs.!” she corrected him.

“Mrs.” the boy said sheepishly. “It is twenty-two pesos.”

“I do not have that much money,” I whispered to her.

“All right,” she said, opening her handbag. The boy said we could pay later, but she paid at once.

Alone by ourselves, with the latch on, I watched her sit uneasily on the edge of the wide bed. When she looked at me, she blushed so beautifully I went to her, kissed her cheek, and said, “Mrs. Samson, I don’t need any proof.”

Her arms went around me tentatively, then tightly, and her mouth was warm and sweet. “Yes, you do,” she said.

In spite of her sophistication and her liberty with words like fuck and bullshit, the truth was that she was prim, even prudish. Alone at last, she could not even undress with me before her. She went to the bathroom, and when she finally emerged, a sheet was draped around her. She had all the blinds drawn. It took us so long to begin — more than two hours, I think, and I was surprised that I was the first. And it was all there — the tiny blotches on the sheet, stark red on white. She had grimaced, but did not complain and I had thought, having read once how ecstasy and pain contorted a woman’s face in the same manner, that she had been lifted to orgasmic heights, but in truth, she had suffered, and when it was over, we examined the mess. She embraced me and whispered, “We are now one.”

After a while, she nudged at me, but I, too, had been hurt and could no longer respond. Also, I could only think of that silly mirror that I had forgotten to look at, and that after all these years, I had finally lain on a bed with a mattress. I remembered the two hamburgers we did not have the foresight to bring along, for by then I had become really hungry.

We were quiet most of the way back to the university. The immensity of what had happened began to worry me; it should have been the fulfillment that it was, but I was only being dragged deeper into a bog of contradiction. I wanted to escape. Still, I was grateful for her gift of love — our oneness now of spirit and being. I was humbled by this girl who would never really be mine, who had proven not her virtue but her willingness to take me as I am.

No one can explain me better than myself. How many times have I stood before the mirror of the old cabinet in Antipolo, before the cracked mirror in the cramped and narrow room I had shared with Toto and pointed the accusing finger at this face and said to him, “You sonofabitch. You screwed up everything again.” And I have done this, loathing this bundle of nerves and arteries, knowing no one stands between myself and perdition. I should be grateful to Betsy, she could have everything and need not be encumbered by me. I can bring her nothing but bad luck and hardship. Who am I to covet her? Why should she breathe the same foul air that is in my lungs? I should not repeat what my father had done.

I wanted to tell her all of this and of my days in the sun, the scent of new harvest, of early evenings and December chill when smoke from morning fires was around us in a haze and the world was silvery with promise; but she came from a planet beyond my vision, and I could only mumble senselessly about the damn traffic, my having to see Professor Hortenso; I even forgot to thank her when we finally reached Recto.

Professor Hortenso was in the faculty room. I told him that I had received an urgent phone call but could not tell him about it in the presence of the other professors. He stepped out with me into the corridor.

“You must be careful now,” he said. “Did you notice that there are new faces in the classrooms, students who are older than most? They are being admitted though the semester is about to draw to a close.”

I did not notice them, not in our classes of sixty. Professor Hortenso said they were intelligence agents, and they may have already infiltrated the Brotherhood.

“But what can they find out?” I asked. “Everything we do is public, our publications. Surely, they know everything.”

Professor Hortenso paused; the bell had rung and students had started to file out of the classrooms, transforming the sweaty corridors into rivulets of babbling, jostling humanity.

“You are wrong, Pepe,” he said. “You cannot have revolution without conspiracy. You and I, we are members of that conspiracy. The leaders of the Brotherhood — and you are one — are involved.”

“I am not aware,” I protested.

“You will be,” he assured me.

I told him about Juan Puneta, that he had gone to Tondo again, left his card at the kumbento and that he wanted me to ring him up.

He seemed thoughtful. “I don’t know what he wants. But just the same, give him a call and tell me what happens.”

He was going to his class, and he asked me to walk with him to the Education building, where he was handling a graduate seminar on Philippine culture.

“They have taken some of our boys in Diliman,” he said. “We have not heard from them. We don’t know what has happened to them. We have tried tracing them but without success. They just disappeared. So, be careful, Pepe. We can all be easily disposed of.”

“They can arrest me any time they want,” I said. “They will find nothing on me.”

He shook his head. “Pepe, they will find many things. Just be careful.”

I remembered Ka Lucio’s warning. But what was there to betray? I knew no secrets, made no important decisions.

Professor Hortenso went on. “If I disappear, or if I leave Manila, do you know where to find me?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know where many of our Directorate members live.”

“I can always find you then,” he said, “in the church.”

“And you?”

“I am helping set up our committees in Central Luzon — Tarlac, Nueva Ecija. You were right, Pepe, the Huks, their children who are now grown up, they are important links not only to the past but to the masses — our base.”

“Ka Lucio—”

“Yes,” he said, “I am now sure his help is very important.”

After my eight-thirty class, I went to a small crummy bookshop on Recto where there was a pay phone and dialed the number Puneta left. No, he was not in — it was one of the maids who answered. But would I leave a message as to where I could be reached tomorrow? He would not be back till late that night.

I will be in school in the late afternoon, I said; and in the Barrio the whole morning.

Hortenso’s warning disturbed me. I was slowly being sucked into a whirlpool, and I did not like it. Ka Lucio’s warning, his lecture on betrayal, bothered me, too, but as I told Professor Hortenso, I knew no secrets and I was not about to join any armed group, much as I longed to avenge Toto’s death. It is not that I was afraid of violence — I saw it every day in the Barrio, the slow, deadly violence inflicted on us, the gang fights, the knifings that were common in Tondo, the malnutrition, the stifling dreariness that deformed the body and the spirit. But I had also begun to know a woman’s love, to eat not just enough but what I wanted; with a little more effort, I would not be just an acolyte; the doors that had been shut to me were finally opening and, beyond them, heroin dreams were beckoning. I was not beguiling or deluding myself merely because I had become a member of the National Directorate or a full scholar in school; after studying Spanish, I realized that if I worked hard at things I really liked, I could excel at them. And being a revolutionary was not in my compass. I could appreciate what Ka Lucio had done, what the Brotherhood was doing, and I was doing a bit if only to merit my position and to salve my conscience; but from the very beginning, politics and politicians had been a bore to me, and I was not now ready to transform myself into that slimy creature I had always loathed.

There should be ways by which I could withdraw unobtrusively from the Brotherhood’s Directorate. After all, I earned nothing there. At the same time, I wanted to keep Professor Hortenso’s friendship, not because it was necessary for my continued employment on the school paper, but because I had grown to respect and like him and his wife. I would still participate in the demonstrations, help in the planning, write manifestoes, things expected of me, but I would be in the shadows, then ease myself away before I finish college.

My new relationship with Betsy bothered me, not with guilt feelings but with confusion. I loved her, but at the same time I desired Lily, too, and despaired for her, wondering about her customers, and the “sensation” she gave them. I often lay awake at night, waiting for her to come home, and could only go to sleep when I heard her walk up the alley, bidding her mother good evening. She would sleep till about ten in the morning at about the same time I would be through with my cleaning, and she would talk with me from her window — nonsense things about us and the Barrio. Then she would be off by eleven after a hurried lunch, for she was expected to be at the Colonial from noon to midnight. If she was late, she would be fined, and if she was late three times in a week, she would be suspended for a week. It was only on Tuesdays that she could really talk with me, but these days were spent more on shopping, sewing, and helping her mother.

Sometimes we reminisced about Toto. Now I was working very hard in the church, and Father Jess increased my allowance. I had asked if he was going to take another fellow, but he told me flatly it was going to be my decision, because the new boy would have to share the room with me; wasn’t it like that with Toto? It was he who brought me to Tondo. Roger, who lived close by, was helping a bit in the church now. Furthermore, I began to like being alone, and would find it difficult to adjust to a new roommate the way I had grown accustomed to Toto.

Yes, I missed him, his subdued and steady pushing when I flagged and, most of all, our quiet talks. I often caught myself asking questions aloud and somehow expecting them to be answered. But Toto was not there, and Roger was not bright enough to take his place.

I decided to see Ka Lucio again. I would have seen him more if only to listen to his stories about the war with the Japanese. Professor Hortenso had frightened me with his knowledge that some of our members had disappeared without any trace and that there were more who would certainly vanish.

I will not ask those asinine questions that had rankled us in the past, those impertinent questions about the validity of government, the obligations of the governed and those who govern. I had learned the answers to these early in Cabugawan.

I have also seen a bit of those forums, those university lecturers, the semantic convolutions into which they go, pondering questions that are really the pastimes of those who sit in the comfort of high offices. There is no blood to their inquiries, no dirt under their feet, the air they breathe is perfumed.

Ka Lucio had the answers, and he did not learn them in the Sierra Madre. One is this: nothing is given free. While Juan Puneta gave those niggardly “tokens” to the Brotherhood, he would someday ask for a bigger payment in kind, yet what did he need money for? He wallowed in it and would probably choke on it.

I have also asked myself what it is that I have done with my life, how has it been used? What right had I to make judgments about others without making them about myself? Indeed, I have tried to look deeply and honestly into my being — pried open the skin, fingered the nerves, the veins, and examined the blood in them. And what did I see?

Anger — and it was what has kept me alive, although I had tried to still it, keep it from flowing out, defined it in another way, and expressed it not with violence but with cynicism.

Ka Lucio had said earlier that there are two ways of looking at our lives — either as fate or as conflict. Only hogs are fated, because they cannot do anything except feed on the trough before they face the butcher’s knife. But men are men; they can do something about the future, and our life is in conflict then. They — or us. Self-defense, survival. Whatever we do, we can put it simply thus. And government? Ka Lucio did not have to tell me that it was an instrument of the rich, that government committed violence on us every day by not providing us with justice. Remember, Ka Lucio had said, we are demanding justice. Here in the Barrio we live with injustice and get to know it as part of life. It is not. And it is when we learn this that the decision is made: us — or them.

There was no equivocation then about my survival; I loved myself dearly, passionately. Ka Lucio had amassed experience to live this long. He would tell me.

He was writing in longhand, on a yellow ruled pad, when I entered — the door of his house open as usual. He had just finished cooking, and the small dingy kitchen was still smoky. He bade me sit; then, putting his hands on his lap, he asked how the revolution was going.

It embarrassed me, for as it was last time, I could not quite make out whether he was making light of us or was in earnest. I decided to ignore the remark. “It won’t start without you, Ka Lucio,” I said.

He laughed then and asked if I wanted a cup of coffee; he had just heated water and the powdered stuff had hardened — if I did not mind it that way. He stood up; how thin he had become, and it was only a few weeks since I last saw him. I wondered if he was getting any medicine or the right kind of food — he never went inside the church, and though he often greeted Father Jess and talked with him about inanities, he never asked for help although I was sure he needed it.

“I hope you are writing your memoirs,” I said.

“No, Pepe. My last conversation with you has set me thinking. I am writing a manual: how to organize the peasantry, how to raise funds, how to fight — you know, a question-and-answer handbook.”

“Ka Lucio,” I said, “that is perhaps the most useful thing we need right now, particularly organizational guides.” I told him how I brought him up in our committee meeting as the wellspring of wisdom. In our youthful audacity, we had not considered how people like him had so much to give. He looked at me gratefully for having remembered.

“You know many of these things because you came from the village,” he said.

“But you tested them all,” I said, “and what I need is confirmation. Do you trust us enough? Would your former men like to help again — their children in particular?”

“Pepe, of course, they will help. Didn’t you know? Once a rebel, always a rebel. It is in the blood. You don’t join the Huks because you want adventure or money — and even if you did join for these reasons, afterward, the fighting, the living together, they change you.”

I understood what he meant; I had joined the Brotherhood for my own reasons, but I was now, it seemed, slowly being drawn into its vortex. Though I wanted to get out, to be uninvolved in the conspiracy that Professor Hortenso had told me about, I had found myself half wanting to become part of it, maybe because the Brotherhood meant my meeting with Betsy, maybe because I was angry at what had happened to Toto.

“How did you manage to escape the Japanese? Were they really all that bad?”

He sat back, a look of shock on his face. “I keep forgetting,” he said, “that the war was three decades ago, that your generation has not known what it is to live under an occupying army. Yes, Pepe, there would have been no successful guerrilla movement, we would not have been able to organize the peasantry if the people did not suffer under the Japanese. They killed many of us, but we got more of them.”

He recounted how they mounted ambushes in the rivers of Pampanga, how the waters turned red. He did not go into details; it was as if he was merely recounting incidents. He melted with the people he said, and yes, he smiled in recollection, there were many times when he wore women’s clothes.

I would have stayed longer, but Tia Nena was looking for me — I had a visitor — so I hurried back to the kumbento. It was Juan Puneta’s driver asking if I would like to have lunch with Dr. Puneta? The car was out in the street, waiting.

“You are really going up — up,” Father Jess said when I asked his permission.

I wanted to ride with the driver up front, but he said I should stay in the rear. It was my first ride in an air-conditioned Continental, and I was awed. I toyed with the electric knob that raised the window and then sat back. On my side was a panel, and it controlled the radio and cassette player. I turned it on and listened to a noisy announcer urging the destruction of the Marcos regime and another march of students to Malacañang. He had a stentorian voice and must have been in love with it, for he rolled his r’s, and made those pauses that only actors make. “We cannot tolerate any longer a man who looks with disdain at the people, who makes a mockery of democracy, who has sold this country to the Americans …”—clichés, so I switched to another station. The Bee Gees were beautiful—

How can you mend a broken heart …

How can you stop the sun from shining …

We were crossing Del Pan, into the handsome country of tall, antiseptic buildings, the Rizal Park. He slowed down on the boulevard and turned left to a Spanish-looking building.

“Please,” the driver said, “Don Juan is inside — just ask the waiter.”

The doorman hurried to the car and opened the door. In my jeans and T-shirt, I walked into the bastion of the mestizo elite. Puneta was in the restaurant drinking beer with a couple of mestizos in white pants — an affectation, for white pants were not worn anymore, although, as Uncle Bert once said, before the war everyone went to work in white drill suits even in the heat.

Juan Puneta came to me and squeezed my hand, saying gustily: “Well, Pepito, it is wonderful to have you accept my invitation. I have been wanting to have a long talk with you.” He guided me to the table and introduced me to his companions in Spanish, adding that I was one of the brightest student leaders. I understood everything and, for a moment, I was tempted to speak in Spanish, but I held back. They shook my hand, then asked to be excused. Although I was confident of my Spanish with Tia Nena and Father Jess, I had not tried it with someone born to the language. I kept quiet and sat down as he reverted to English, asking me what I wanted to drink.

From books and magazines, I knew a bit of bar exotica, but beer or gin was all I really knew. I had never been to a place like the Casino, so I asked him to do the ordering. “Sangria,” he said. “I could ask for Jerez, but there is nothing like the Sangria that the bartender here makes.”

Though he was in his early forties, Juan Puneta looked more like thirty. He had obviously taken good care of his body for he did not have a paunch and his arms were muscular and wiry. He kept cracking his fingers.

Our sangria came. “Salud,” he said, raising his glass to me, his eyes shining. Then I saw it. The eyes, cagey and shifty, gave him away — not his gait, not his mannerisms. There was in his eyes, now that he was grinning, a certain sharpness. I had never objected to homosexuals — there was no reason for me to do so. In Cabugawan, we had one for a neighbor; he lived with young boys from the other barrios and made a living frying bananas, making rice cakes, and selling them. His cakes — particularly his cochinta and his puto—were superior to any other in our town. To to and I had a couple of classmates, too, and they were entitled to their preferences as long as they did not bother me. I like girls, always did, and I did not care to change.

I was amused by Juan Puneta because he looked so masculine, so very macho, and yet Lily had told me otherwise. He did the ordering — fried squid to start with, then bouillabaisse, which he said was excellent, and tripe, then dessert and coffee.

The squid came, deep fried and cut into small pieces, crunchy, almost like chicharrón. Around us was the babble of businessmen, the denizens of Pobres Park, the social elite, and I could pick up snatches of their talk, prices of minerals, saucy gossip, trips to Europe. “You know, Pepito,” Puneta said, getting serious; he had exhausted all the small talk — the weather, the increasing anarchy. “You must really give attention now to organizational work. I listened to you last time, you know. You can really organize in the rural areas. How do you feel about it?”

He gave some money to the Brotherhood, so I must not antagonize him. I must be nice, polite. Meekly: “I don’t really know, sir.”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me,” he said in mock anger. “Really, I am not your teacher, and don’t let my age and my Ph.D. intimidate you.”

“Yes, sir.”

He laughed. “Well, if you cannot call me by my nickname, which is Juan, then a plain Mr. will do.”

“Yes, Mr. Puneta,” I had no intention of calling him Dr., not after the way Mrs. Hortenso had talked against him. “I have not given it any thought, but whatever assignment will be given to me, I will do it.”

“Excellent!” he enthused, cracking his knuckles again.

The bouillabaisse came. “This is the specialty of the Casino,” Puneta said. I remembered reading about it as a dish from Marseilles, a thick soup with pieces of fish, clams, crab — seafood chop suey — and I liked it.

Then he asked me about the former Huk commander in the barrio.

“He is writing,” I said. I held back, not sure whether I should tell him what Ka Lucio had told me, the handbook he was doing, the list of former members we should see — in Laguna, Tarlac, Pampanga, Nueva Ecija, Pangasinan, Bicol, even in far off Panay, in Mindoro, and in Mindanao. I did not know they had organized that far. I thought the Huk movement was confined to Central Luzon, particularly Tarlac and Pampanga.

“What is he writing?”

“His memoirs,” I lied. “He is very sick.”

“I should see him then,” Juan Puneta said. He seemed thoughtful. “I am sure he needs help.”

Our tripe came. I had expected us to discuss politics; I wanted to find out how well he knew Philippine communism — the subject of his Cambridge dissertation — and how intellectually sharp he was. I asked him if I could read his thesis, but he dismissed my request with an imperious wave of the hand. “Just one of those academic requirements,” he demurred. “Better read the new collection of essays that I have written; it will be published soon.” Then, without any warning, he asked if I had ever gone whoring.

I was caught off guard. I fumbled and could not reply. He shook a finger at me and grinned: “You seem more interested in politics than in sex.”

I expected him to proposition me then, but he continued blithely: “Revolutionaries should not have emotional entanglements with women. It is bad because they will then be vulnerable. You can always go whoring for release.”

I did not speak.

He suspected, perhaps, that I was not pleased. “I mean it,” he said. “It is one way by which you can get release. Are you twenty already, Pepito?”

“Twenty-four going on twenty-five,” I said.

“Well, you are at the height of your sexual powers. There is nothing unhealthy about whoring — if you are careful.”

“I have never tried, sir,” I said.

“Try it sometime,” he said. “It will keep your mind away from girls who will smother you.”

“I have not even—” I thought about what Lily had told me, “tried anything tamer — like the sauna and massage.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “You must be a Puritan, then, working with that priest in Tondo.”

“No, sir,” I said, “I certainly am not.”

He shook his head and went on grinning: “Well, saunas, that is one place I have never been to.”

How easily he lied. “But try going to one, find out which is best, then someday”—his eyes twinkled—“we can go together.”

Much, much later I thought about the bizarre meeting and wondered why Juan Puneta had wanted to see me. He had talked about women, he was bragging about his techniques, how necessary it was to have women under male control. He had a very extensive collection of pornography, he said, which I must see some time. But more than that, I must visit him at his home, and he made a date right there — a week from Friday, at nine in the morning; I should come to his office and we would go target-shooting — no, not in a cat house, at his home, he had a shooting range there. He also collected guns and I must learn how to shoot and shoot well if I am going to be in the vanguard of the Brotherhood. As a matter of fact, he said, if I wished, we could go to his house that very moment. But I told him I had classes in the afternoon, and it was past three.

He signed the chits, asked if I wanted anything other than the small glass of anisado^‡—my first drink of liqueur — I downed it in one gulp and burned my throat. The sangria had gone to work, the anisado, too, and I was voluble and careless. No, I did not want anything more. I should go straight to school; our finals were at hand and I did not want to lose my scholarship. If not for this I would go with him target-shooting, not only in his house.

He laughed heartily, took me to his car, and drove me off to Recto. As we neared the university and its traffic, he took some fifty-peso bills out of his wallet and handed them to me. I did not want to take them, but he thrust them into my pocket. “It’s not for you,” he said, grinning, “for the Brotherhood. Go to saunas — look for the best, then be my teacher. And after that the target practice.”

I did not feel that I should tell Professor Hortenso what had transpired — the talk about sex techniques and target-shooting — it was too incredible to recount. But at least Puneta did not proposition me. When I got to my class, I counted the money — it was exactly five hundred pesos. It was the second time I had that much money, and for sure, within the week, Roger and the boys would have another feast in Panciteria Asia or some place fancier. And maybe, at long last, I would also be able to visit Lily where she worked.

The Colonial is in a three-story boxlike building with a red neon sign in Gothic on its facade. A blue-uniformed guard stood by the ornately filigreed door. He opened it as I got out of the taxi and greeted me, “Good afternoon, sir.” I stepped into a red-carpeted lobby. Giant shell lamps illumined the reception area, and though it was only half past two in the afternoon, it already seemed like dusk, for all the heavy maroon drapes were drawn.

The reception desk was crowded with business types. It was rush hour, as many of the “guests” had arrived from their lunches in nearby restaurants.

I walked up to the desk after the crowd had thinned. Two girls were manning it and one asked without smiling, “What is it, sir? Executive or VIP?” Lily had told me the Executive cubicles were more expensive, but what did I care? I had Puneta’s money.

“Executive,” I said. I took one fifty-peso bill and handed it to her, then asked, “Is seventeen busy?”

She looked at the listing before her and said, “No.” She picked up a microphone and called: “Seventeen, ready.” A boy behind the desk handed me a key with a big, white plastic holder.

“Third floor, sir,” the girl said.

I went up the carpeted flight; at the landing a boy asked if I would like to shower and steam first. He guessed, I suppose, that this was my first time in the Colonial. “What is your number, sir?”

I showed my key, and he guided me to the cubicle — so dim I could not see anything. “I am blind here,” I said. The boy laughed; he opened a cabinet at a corner and in a sudden flood of yellow light, they jumped up — the low platform with a foam rubber mattress, an extra towel, rubber slippers encased in plastic.

“You put your things here, sir,” the boy explained, pointing to the cabinet. “Lock it and bring your key. The shower and steam bath are in front of the door where you came in.”

I thanked him, then sat on the pad. I closed the cabinet with the lightbulb, and the room was thrown into darkness again. I took off my shoes but did not strip; I had no intention of taking a shower, much less a massage. The door had a small glass window, but a piece of cardboard had been taped over it so that I had some privacy. The door, however, had no latch and could be opened at any time; the panels between the cubicles did not go all the way down to the floor; there was a narrow slit between.

I lay on the pad, wondering how Lily would react when she came in. It did not take long. The door opened. “Sir,” she asked tentatively. “Will it be oil? Or lotion?”

“Saliva,” I whispered.

She paused, edged closer and peered down. She was used to the darkness and now so was I. Her dark eyes grew wide, then she bent down and embraced me, saying huskily; “Pepe, Pepe.” She started laughing. “Now, sir, would you like your sensation first or the massage?”

I kissed her, and she responded warmly, her lips tasting of promises. Her hand wandered down.

“Hell,” I said under my breath. “You do that to everyone!”

“Pepe,” she said pushing me away. “It is my job, I told you!”

“Hell,” I repeated.

“Are we going to quarrel? Did you come here to insult me? You paid fifty pesos for this, have you forgotten?”

“It was not my money,” I said. It was senseless being sullen over something I could do nothing about. My anger left quickly. I had come here to see her; I knew what to expect. And she had kissed me. After some silence, “Two nights from now, after my last exam, I will take Roger and the rest out — we will have a wonderful dinner — and if you want to come …”

“I cannot leave till midnight, Pepe. You are my first guest,” she said. “I don’t really like teenagers, and you look like one with your long hair. The boy told me.”

“What’s wrong with teenagers?”

“TY, that’s what. Thank you. No tips. Gorios, that’s what we call them. We’d rather have them fat and old — they tip well, most of them anyway.”

I lay down again.

“I’d really like to give you a massage,” she said, holding my hand. “I am very good, you know. Hard. I have several Japanese guests; they come really for the massage, and they like me because they say I am ichi bang.^§”

“I just wanted to see you,” I said. “Now that I can afford it. Juan Puneta gave me the money for this.”

She drew back in surprise, then said, “You should have showered and taken a steam bath. He is there! Now!”

“He told me he has never been to a sauna.”

“Shit!” she said. “You want to surprise him?” She stood up and headed for the door, but I held her back.

“I’ll see Girlie,” she said. “She is his regular. I told you, he just talks with her.”

“Don’t tell him, promise.”

She laughed then went out.

In another minute, she was back. “We are in luck,” she said. “They will be in the next cubicle. We can eavesdrop or even peep.”

She lay beside me; we were cramped, but that was what I wanted.

“I have been thinking, Pepe,” she said after a while. “Mostly about myself — what I will do. I’ll go back to school and finish fine arts. But I have forgotten how to draw. I am in demand now — all of us who are young and good-looking. But how long will that be?”

“You study in the morning,” I said. “Don’t hurry, even if it will take six years. At least you will be prepared for a better job. I hope you have been saving.”

“What will you finally take?” It was my turn to be questioned, but before I could answer, the door next to ours opened. The girl was saying, “I will really try my best, but very few teenagers come here.”

The cracking of knuckles was enough to convince me. Puneta’s voice when he replied was so low I could not understand a word.

Lily whispered, “Didn’t I tell you? He has been asking Girlie to proposition teenagers for him. Five hundred pesos — as high as that!”

I shuddered; it was five hundred pesos he had given me. “What really does he do here?” I asked.

“I told you,” she said. “He comes here almost every day, at this time, when we have the most number of guests, or shortly after five, rush hour. He takes time in the steam room, in the shower, looking at all those pricks. Then he comes in, but refuses a massage. He always takes Girlie, waits for her if she is busy.” She got off the pad again, motioned me to peep through the slit between the rooms.

I bent over; the other cubicle was as dark as ours, but I could see the girl sitting on the pad, and the pale, handsome profile of Juan Puneta.

“Enough,” I said, pulling her back to my side.

Her face was close to mine. “Even your hair smells sweet,” I said.

“Wait till I have had five guests,” she said. Then, seriously, “Pepe, I am worried about you. There is a general— Army officers come here, you know. This general, he is very proud of his prick. They call him a general’s general. I have never serviced him, but the girls who have say it is really big. Well, he told one of the girls that the army is really going to be harsh on the demonstrators.”

“They are already doing that.”

“It could be worse. What will happen to you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe, in the end, I will go to the mountains.”

“You will be alone and you will be hungry.”

“That would not be anything new,” I said. “I can live on coconuts, green bananas, and papayas.”

“The mosquitoes and the leeches will finish you. And you will have malaria and other fevers.”

“At least I will not be getting gonorrhea. No saunas there.”

“You are wrong,” she raised her voice above the whisper we were conversing in.

I kissed her chin. “No nightclubs then,” I said.

“And no fucking.”

“I can always masturbate.”

“Suppose I did that for you? Suppose I went with you?”

“Is that all you will do? You have no skills, really. You cannot take dictation and type. I don’t think you can carry loads.”

“You make me feel so worthless,” she said.

“But you are good enough for me.”

“Will you really take me if I came along?”

She sounded serious. “No,” I said.

“I will wait for you then.”

“Shit,” I said. “You will wait forever.”

The other room was now aglow; Juan Puneta was finished and was obviously dressing. I was tempted to rise and go to his room and confront him, but it was his money that I was using, and besides, I was not ready to make an enemy of him.

“We can peep through our door,” Lily said, standing, and that was what we did. Puneta went out quickly, and I wondered if he had his Continental with him.

“No,” Lily said, “he always comes here alone, by taxi, I think.”

I had time so I tarried even after Lily had changed the sheets. She had asked me to linger — there was no one waiting for her. She would have been informed if there was.

“Your unlucky day,” I said. I gave her a fifty-peso tip, which she did not want to take, but I thrust it down the pocket of her white skirt. Before we reached the reception area, she kissed me; then I stepped out into the blinding sunlight.

I went to Professor Hortenso’s house the next day, for he had left word for me in the office of the school paper. Mrs. Hortenso opened the door, but before she did she peered out of the grilled window into the street.

“Come in, Pepe,” she said as if she was in a hurry, then bolted the door. “Have you eaten?” She knew I had rushed from school to Dapitan and the plates were ready on the table. She was thoughtful and kind. Someday, I told myself, if and when I got married, it would be to someone like her.

Professor Hortenso sat beside me while Mrs. Hortenso came out with a plate of steaming rice, fried bangus and shrimp sinigang. I was really hungry. He watched me eat, and between gaps of silence he talked about the finals we were going through. No, I found the examinations easy, and I did not even have all the textbooks; I just listened to the lectures instead of letting my mind wander.

“You will maintain your scholarship then,” he said happily. “You have to. The university will no longer accept activists who are not bona fide students, and those who are on the leadership list are under surveillance; they have to be good to stay, not only in the scholarship rolls but in the university itself. The army is applying pressure.”

I was silent. “And be careful, Pepe,” Mrs. Hortenso said. “Do you know that they have been watching us for the last two days? They were there—” she thrust her chin toward the street corner. “In a jeep. They had cameras. I noticed them yesterday when I went to market. I am not naturally suspicious, but I saw them; they were watching the house.”

I turned to Professor Hortenso. He nodded slowly.

When I had finished, he stood up and said, “Let us go out for a walk.”

Mrs. Hortenso followed us to the door. “Careful, Dad,” she said, her face dark with apprehension.

We walked toward the boulevard, and once in a while, Professor Hortenso would abruptly turn around. There was no one following us. I had not seen him for almost a week. Now I told him about Juan Puneta, how he had taken me to the Casino for lunch, how he had talked about politics — just a little — nothing more, about Ka Lucio.

“He is making a list of people we should contact, and they are all over the country,” I said.

“Good! Good!” Professor Hortenso exclaimed. Then he told me how worried he was; another of the Diliman boys in the Brotherhood had disappeared. That made it five student leaders without a trace. The parents had come to Manila, made inquiries with the police, the army, but there were no leads.

“They must have gone underground already,” I suggested.

“No,” Professor Hortenso said. “I would know. Someone in the Brotherhood would know.”

We had reached the boulevard. “Pepe,” he said, “I don’t know, but I think you should stop seeing Puneta. It is not a question of mistrusting him — I have no evidence for that. But I think he will do us more harm than good; I reread what your uncle wrote, and he is right. We cannot afford to be misled again. Worse, misused — and know it.”

It was almost midnight when I got back to Tondo. I was tempted to take a taxi — I still had three hundred pesos of Puneta’s money — but I was in no hurry and I wanted to be alone to think clearly of what had transpired. I was to meet Puneta in a day at the Casino, as we had agreed, but after Professor Hortenso had warned me, I decided not to see him.

The muddied alleys of the barrio had dried, and in places they were already cemented. We had raised money for the basketball court as well. The church was lighted up, and people were there, the neighbors mostly. And in the center aisle was a coffin. When she saw me, Cora, the older of the two sisters who lived with Ka Lucio, came to me and started to cry.

“Pepe, it’s uncle—”

I had greeted him that morning when I left for the university to review before my exams, and even asked him if he would care to join us at Panciteria Asia. “I will be out of place, Pepe,” he had told me.

And now he was dead.

“Did he have a heart attack? Did he—”

She could not explain; it was Roger who did. Cora had already left for work and it was Nene, the younger sister, who came home from school at noon for lunch. Ka Lucio was prostrate in the living room, his head bathed in blood. Someone had come in and bashed his head. Most probably he never knew who or what hit him. In his old age, he had become so trusting that he always kept the front door open. No one had seen the killer. No noise, no scream, no struggle; it was swift and painless. He had known some peace and quiet here in the Barrio, but death stalked him here, this accursed jungle of tin and rubble and driftwood. He lived through twelve years of jail, through ambushes and travail, only to succumb to a faceless murderer.

“We told the police,” Roger was saying as we went to the bier. I looked at the calm, lean face, peaceful in death. He had never been in this church while he was alive. I still had three hundred pesos, but I told Roger we would not go out anymore, the money would be for Ka Lucio.

* Sakdals: A group of Filipino people.

† Ganta: A measure of capacity; one ganta is equal to five pints.

‡ Anisado: Aniseed wine.

§ Ichi bang: Number one.

Chain of Centuries

It was Betsy who answered the phone when I took the chance and called her not at the agreed upon time. She could sense the urgency although I tried to sound flippant.

“What happened? Can you tell me?”

“Not on the phone,” I said. “Between kisses, I’ll tell you.”

“Are they after you?”

“The way I am after you,” I said.

“I will drive over as fast as I can; I should be there in twenty minutes.”

From Makati, at dusk, when traffic was at its worst, it would take an hour. I walked over to the Rendezvous where my friends would be, but no one was there. I took a table in a corner where I was hidden by the evening throng, students having snacks after their afternoon classes.

The street outside was noisy with traffic, and when I walked out, the stench of garbage piled high along the gutters assailed me. Our slogans were plastered all over the stone embankment, on the walls of buildings. The new ones screamed, dark red: Marcos Hitler Diktador.

It had always made me feel good, waiting on the sidewalk for Betsy to come in her mustard-colored Volks. She wove out of the traffic to where she always picked me up. I darted out and got into the car, and as she shifted into first gear, I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

We got out of Quiapo quickly and onto the boulevard, hardly speaking, except for niceties, her term paper on Japan, her quarrel with her mother. Her answers were perfunctory.

We had no favorite motel; we went to what was nearest and most convenient. We rarely went to a place twice, for I did not want her to be subjected to the indignity of recognition. At M. H. del Pilar, we turned into the first motel — a prewar residence in the Malate area now converted into something tawdry but profitable. A boy standing by the row of garage doors pointed out to us an open one and we drove in. He followed us and lowered the door. Betsy went out and quickly went up the stairs. I followed her to the small anteroom and closed the door; there was the usual pair of drinking glasses, the frayed menu on the table, and beyond, the double bed with mirrors on its side; the air conditioner and the radio were on. She kissed me, the honey, the salt, the sweetness of it all, lingering in my mouth.

The buzzer rang, and she freed herself, reached into her bag for the money, but this time, I shook my head. “I have a little,” I said. “Let me take care of this.”

She smiled, then went to the bedroom and closed the door.

The boy came with the registry, a jug of ice-cold water, and an extra sheet. He laid the registry on the table, and I signed my real name as I always did together with a nonexistent residence certificate with lots of sevens in it. I gave him twenty-two pesos, and after he had thanked me and left, I put on the latch. We had all the time now. Betsy did not care anymore if she got pregnant, but I did not want to inconvenience her. In a few days, she would be in Bacolod for the semester break to say good-bye to relatives, friends, and her kindergarten school.

Afterward, I told her that Ka Lucio was dead, and that the list and manual he was working on could not be found. She took the news quietly. “We have enemies,” she finally said, trembling.

“It’s been more than a year now, Betsy,” I said. “Do you think you can trust me?”

We were lying on our backs, holding hands. “Pepe, I trusted you the first time I met you. How can you ask such a question?” She sounded disconsolate.

“Though I sometimes feel I don’t understand you, I trust you completely, told you things,” I said.

“What things?”

“My life, for instance.” I had difficulty forming the words. “You said we have enemies. We have to do something, other than those demonstrations. Suppose, after this semester, I decided to go to the mountains.”

She drew back, her eyes dark with dread.

“Ka Lucio is dead. Professor Hortenso says those of us who are exposed are in danger,” I said.

She lay on her back again. Her breast rose and fell; she just stared at the ceiling, at the stupid red bulb there that I had forgotten to switch off. I moved closer to her, stroked her flat stomach.

“Please, Pepe,” she finally spoke, “think about it carefully. Only three more weeks, then it is America for me. I don’t want to go. I’d rather be here, no matter what happens.”

I touched her cheek, then raised myself on an elbow and gazed at the lustrous eyes, the full lips, the strand of hair on the smooth forehead.

She held my hand, pressed it to her breast. “What have we done? Where are we going? I am afraid.”

“We must live while we can. We must not waste even a moment.”

“How can you say that?” she asked. “You … in that place. That is not a place for people.”

“You despise me then.”

“No, Pepe, how can you say that? All those people crowded there— I am ashamed. The way we live. One dress — it is what one of them would earn in a month. Or even three months. That is why I wear jeans most of the time. Not because it is fashionable, but because I am ashamed.”

“And I wear them to hide my poverty,” I said.

I started laughing; it struck me for the first time — its triteness, its being so bakya. She turned to me and asked: “Is poverty funny?”

“No, sweetheart,” I said, tweaking her nose. “Us — we are funny. When I was a boy, I used to see those silly Tagalog pictures. Rich boy, poor girl. Once, she was a provinsiana. At another time, a bus conductor. It was wonderful entertainment. Now, it is rich girl, poor boy. Can you imagine a sillier situation? It is the kind of story movies and all those radio serials that go on forever are made of. As the poor boy and the rich girl are about to marry, something happens and they break up. Wait for the next installment tomorrow, next week, next month.”

“It is our life.”

“It only hurts, sweetheart, when I laugh,” I told her glibly.

“Stop being clever. Can you not see? I want you to be the best scholar in your university, the best leader in the Brotherhood, the best essayist … better than your father.”

“Don’t bring him into this,” I said sharply. “That is what Auntie Bettina and Mother have pounded into me: be like him. I am not going to live in his shadow. I don’t want to read what he has written any longer, to remember him.”

“Pepe, he is your father!”

“Hell! If he committed suicide that is where he is now anyway.”

“He did — because he had integrity.”

“You cannot say that, you never met him.”

“Reading his book, I feel I know him.”

“Maybe it is him you love.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You know it is you, and it will always be you. And you can be the best. But even if you are the lousiest, the meanest, the ugliest …”

“You wouldn’t have gone out with me.”

“I want you alive, I want you breathing, moving. I don’t want you disappearing, or being killed in a demonstration — like Toto.”

“We have to take risks. That is what we are in the Brotherhood for. You know that. We have to go beyond the demonstrations.”

Slowly she put her arms around me. “I want to live, Pepe, not for myself, but for you.”

I held her close, felt the thumping of her heart, the silky warmth of her legs entwined with mine.

After a long, long while she sat up, then stood before me, all the five feet two of her gleaming and tawny, regal grace, and for an instant, it seemed as if she was burdened with all the sadness in the world. She gathered her clothes on the sofa, slipped into her jeans, her faded, formless blouse.

I had not stirred from the bed. Her back turned to me, she said, “We have been leading up to this. I could see it coming.” She wheeled and her face was in anguish. “But why do it? What difference would it make?”

I rose and picked up my clothes. “I was just thinking. There is a limit to words, you know that. And we cannot depend on words anymore. I did not realize how fast time had gone.”

“Especially for me,” she said ruefully. “Maybe because I think of nothing now but being with you.” She found her shoes, sat before the dresser, and started putting on a little lipstick. She smoothed her hair with the ivory brush she always carried. In another moment, we would part.

“If you go, how will I know where you are?”

“You won’t. I will see you, but it will be far between. They can trace me to you … and I don’t want anything to happen to you. I will miss you … if I go.”

“Oh, Pepe!” her voice broke and she rushed to me, embraced me, and sobs shook her. She would not let me tilt her face, would not let me see her face washed with tears. I hugged her, saying, “My Betsy,” and got my cheeks wet, too, with her crying. She cried for a long time and, when it was over and I drew away, her eyes were swollen.

“See what you have done,” I said. “Now you really need makeup.”

She smiled and kissed me. “What will become of you?”

“I will die,” I said, making light of everything, for I did not want our evening to be gloomier than it already was. “And there will be no grieving widow, nothing, just as it always was, for I came from nothing.”

She embraced me again. “Don’t talk like that!”

“All right,” I said. “I will live to be a hundred. What is that Spanish saying? The weeds live long?”

Afterward, she asked: “What will become of me?”

“You will forget me like you would a bad dream.”

“No. Never.”

“You will,” I said. “And you will fall in love with someone and you will marry him, raise children who will inherit your good looks and your brains, and none of them will ever make the same mistake you made, going around with someone like me.”

“It is not a mistake,” she said. “Why do you degrade yourself? You are everything — my husband.” She started crying again, and I held her. “Pepe,” she said, “I am so miserable.”

I hugged her, a tightening in my chest, a smarting in my eyes. “I love you, Ramona,” my voice sounded strange. “I cannot thank you enough for giving yourself to me.”

Challenge to the Race

I was finally picked up on the last day of the semester, just before the two-week school break. I had just gotten off a jeepney at Bangkusay and was walking toward the Barrio when four sunburned men in their thirties surrounded me; they had revolvers tucked in their waists. They could be from the rival gang of Bangkusay, but I had not done anything to antagonize them if they were.

“Pare, we will not harm you if you come with us quietly.”

I had no choice; we walked down the street and did not even attract attention. They stopped before a van with the name “Luzon Bakery” on the sides, and we got in — the three on the front seat and the fourth in the back. Once inside, they frisked me; their tone of polite amiability disappeared.

“Lie down flat on your stomach,” the man in the rear ordered and when I was slow at it, he kicked me in the ribs. It hurt but I was not frightened. I was curious about who they were, where they were taking me.

Then, it became sunrise — they were after me because of my work in the Brotherhood. I tried to raise my head, and it was then that the blow came. The man sitting before me pistol-whipped me in the head. For a moment I thought I would pass out as everything darkened.

“Don’t raise your head,” the man warned. “You are not going to find out where you are going. One more movement like that and I am really going to knock you out, tie you up, and blindfold you. You understand?” His Tagalog had an accent, perhaps Visayan, perhaps Ilocano.

“Wen, Manong,” I said.^*

“We are from the same region,” one of the men in the front seat said.

While I could not raise my head, I could look at my tormentor’s shoes. They were black army boots. The van did not smell of bread. In fact, there was no trace of flour or crumbs on the floor. It seemed to have been swept clean and was pervaded by an odor of burnt oil, of machine shops, and the tired sweaty stench of government offices.

We now bounced occasionally. We were traveling over a rutted road, and my face scraped against the steel floor and it hurt, so I rested my face on my arm. Then we were on what seemed like a good asphalt road. We drove straight and fast, perhaps for half an hour. The snort of traffic and of people talking wafted into the van.

The men out front were talking in Tagalog about how they would spend the night at some massage parlor, and one of them was openly wondering if I would be so difficult as to interrupt their evening plans.

The Directorate, I remembered, once had a seminar on how we should behave if we were arrested or taken into custody without the usual procedures. I must remember their faces, the place where they took me, their names if possible, anything I could use to identify them later on. And I must not give them cause to be violent.

The sound of traffic diminished, then disappeared. The van stopped and we got out. I was in an enclosed courtyard — probably a bodega with a bit of sky above. I did not have time to examine my surroundings, for they pushed me into an empty room walled with cement, asphalt tiles for the floor. A high window with bars was open, and there was not a single piece of furniture in the room. An old newspaper and a red plastic pail were in a corner, and when I looked, the pail contained toilet paper and dried excrement that still smelled.

I squatted on the dusty floor, wondering where we were. The only sounds that reached me were the distant honking of a car and the barking of a dog.

I was thirsty, but there was nothing to drink; I pounded on the door, which was locked from the outside, and asked for water, but there was no reply.

Soon it was dark and mosquitoes buzzed all around me. I switched the light on, but either the bulb was not working or there was no power. There was no way I could reach the window, which was a full two meters above me. I tried jumping to find out what was beyond, but could see only the sky.

I lay down as darkness deepened and surrendered to the anonymity, the kind and elusive peace the night had brought. Sleep would not come, and now I tried to recall what acts of conspiracy I had committed that had brought me to this room, what articles of faith I had sundered. And the more I thought, the more I was convinced that I had done no wrong.

Late in the night I was awakened by a scream — a woman in terror. There was something animal and despairing about her cry, as if she wanted help, the kind that would mean salvation. I keened for the sound, trying to figure out which part of the building it came from, but all was darkness; the barred window high above brought nothing but the muffled sound of traffic in the distance, a steady thrum lengthening into even silences, and voices indistinct and disembodied.

I pressed my ear to the wall to extract sounds I could understand, but could hear nothing. Was it really a woman’s scream I had heard? I walked to the door and tried opening it, but it was locked and would not budge.

I lay again on the floor, hoping to hear a sound, a human sound, another scream that would at least show I was not alone in this building, whose breadth and height I had no knowledge of, least of all its location. I did not even know which way was east.

In the dark, I could make out the outlines of the door, the corners of the room. I closed my eyes, prayed for sleep to come, but it would not; I imagined shapes, rays of light, glowing gems of blue, fleeting and iridescent, and in between, grim, grim thoughts about what awaited me. I floated off into sleep — fitful and short.

I woke up with a sliver of sun on my face, the sound of voices beyond my door, but I could not make out the sounds. I pounded on the door and shouted, “Sir, please, if you can hear me. I am thirsty. Paki,^† please let me have some water.” I waited for a reply, and when there was none, I said, this time in a shout, that I needed water.

My throat was parched and, strangely, though I had not eaten for a day now, I did not feel weak or hungry. Still no reply. It had begun to get warm so I took off my pants and shirt, folded them neatly and laid them on the floor. I lay down again and waited. I must not lose my strength, I must preserve what I could of it.

Toward afternoon the door was flung open. There was a new man — his crew cut still fresh so that the scalp was still pale. The two others were obviously enlisted men. It was the man with the crew cut, White Sidewall, who told me to put my clothes on, which I did immediately. I asked for water but they ignored me. When I had dressed, they slapped handcuffs on my wrists.

The room where I was confined adjoined another — a hall into which other doors opened. There was nothing in the hall except five iron beds that had not been made. At one end was a table with food and to it they pointed.

Although I was handcuffed, I did not have difficulty with the pan de sal, the cup of lukewarm coffee, and, when I finally got my drink, never before had water tasted so good.

I would be nice to them; without my handcuffs, I could fight — it would be a risk. I could kill one probably before they would be able to kill me, but I was not going to die now. I was not ready to do so.

I tried to make out the things on their beds, comic books, their guns; in a corner was an armalite and loaded magazines. They were all in civilian clothes; only their shoes showed they were military.

My interrogation started shortly after breakfast; the room adjoining the hall was bare of furniture except for a wooden chair and a long varnished table between my interrogators and me. The windows were high and they were open to let in the air, the distant sound of traffic, the whining of an air-conditioning unit.

White Sidewall could be a lieutenant or a captain. His questioning was relaxed. “You had a good breakfast, and you will continue to be fed well. I hope that you will appreciate what we are trying to do. There are snakes all over the land — very poisonous snakes — and we must seek them out and destroy them or they will kill us. It is, really, as simple as that. Now, tell us about the interesting things you saw in China when you went there last year.”

The question really rocked me; he was either joking or had the wrong Samson.

“I have never been to China, sir. The closest I have been to China is Ongpin.”

They scrutinized their pads, scribbled on them, then White Sidewall continued, “What campus organizations do you belong to?”

I thought it best to be honest. After all, it was public knowledge. “The Brotherhood, sir.”

Smiles on their faces. White Sidewall was doing the questioning. “What is your position in The Brotherhood?”

“I am a member of the Directorate.”

“As a member, what do you do?”

“I attend meetings,” I said. “The Directorate lays down policy and prepares a program for the whole year.”

“Did you participate in the demonstrations?”

“Yes, but not all of them.”

“Were you in the demonstration at the American embassy the other day?”

I was sure there had been no demonstration at the American embassy, and while I wracked my head for an answer, a blow sent me reeling to the floor. My ear was seared by pain. I tried to rise, to get back to the chair, but now, the weakness that had eluded me came. My knees were wobbly and I could hardly stand.

“I need prompt replies,” White Sidewall said, smiling. I turned to my left; there was a man in a black T-shirt and denim pants standing there — big and so well built he could have been a professional wrestler. I glanced at his powerful hands. He was no karatista; his knuckles had not hardened.

I knew then that I would be tortured. I started to think of ways by which I would be able to meet it, react to every blow, every turn of the screw as if the end had come — that would perhaps make them less violent. I decided the Brotherhood was not worth dying for; I would tell them everything I knew. After all, I was not involved in any conspiracy.

The questioning continued evenly. White Sidewall was taking his time, even joking with his companions while I sat there, listening to their ribald jokes. “I suppose you are not a virgin, Mr. Samson?”

I shook my head.

Laughter from all three. “Well,” White Sidewall again, “our Berdugo”—he thrust a chin at Tarzan behind me—“has a preference for virgins, male or female.” Again, peals of laughter.

They did not wear watches, so I did not know what time it was. Outside it was light, but in the room, with but one window open, it was quite dim. Someone brought in their lunches on tin trays, and they ate slowly, enjoying their fried chicken and their noodle soup. Not even out of politeness did they say, let us eat. When they were through, they smoked, lifted their feet onto the table and comported themselves as if I were not there.

The questioning, it seemed, was over. They were sleepy after the meal, so they took me back to the room. I was sure now that the building was some kind of office that had not been furnished, that we were far from houses. I lay on the floor and shut my eyes, tried to reconstruct the questions, their implications. It was obvious that they had trailed me, they knew where I often went, and they had knowledge of the organization. It was useless lying. But the direction of their questioning puzzled me. What were they really after? Were they afraid that the Brotherhood was powerful enough to start a revolution? That was Toto’s fondest wish, the pinnacle of his aspirations, but it was sheer fantasy.

And the scream. Were they holding others and were they going to soften me up first before they turned on the screws? How long would it take? It was my second night. I had a very late breakfast, but there was no water, no food in the room.

My head ached where Tarzan had hit me, though there was no swelling. The blow was not intended to render me unconscious, only to instruct me in the futility of not cooperating with them. And that was what I wanted to do, if only I knew the answers to their questions!

In the beginning I had thought that hunger could be avoided or at least escaped if I went to sleep. But I couldn’t do it; it was not just the mosquitoes. I did not know what to expect next, what new pain was to be inflicted on me. Perhaps this was part of the torture itself, and realizing that, I tried to think of those things I enjoyed most. Yet dark thoughts kept intruding, I remembered Betsy, my dear Betsy, her face, imagined the smell of her hair, her Tabu, the feel of her skin, her cheeks. She was in my mind when I finally fell asleep.

It was early morning when I was roused. The door was open, and Tarzan was there, looking as menacing as always.

“You will clean the toilet,” he said. “So take your clothes off.”

He undid my handcuffs and, for a moment I was tempted to strike at him, but there would be others outside, and they would not hesitate to use their guns.

I carried my pail with my own excrement of the day before, and went with him to the toilet at the far end of the hall. Other plastic pails were there, waiting to be emptied into the bowl.

As I bent over, emptying my pail into the bowl, something warm splashed on my head and all over me. I turned, then felt nausea; I was covered with feces, my face, my back. Tarzan had emptied one of the pails over me, and he now looked at his obscene handiwork, his eyes aglow with malice.

He laughed, and now, White Sidewall and the others came and looked at me. I was too shocked to react, and my first impulse was to rush out of the toilet and embrace them, rub the feces on their bodies, but that would only anger them and make them more severe. I knew that this was premeditated, to humiliate me, to humble me.

Tarzan threw me a mop and told me to start cleaning my mess. “You young radicals,” he muttered, “you are full of shit.”

I emptied the pails into the bowl, showered once, twice, thrice until there was not a trace of smell on me; I washed my jockey shorts, too, and was about to put it on, still wet, but Tarzan, who was watching all the while through the open door, said I should get out naked.

They marched me back to the room where they had interrogated me the day before. I did not try to cover my nakedness with the still wet shorts that I carried; I was weak from the work, from what had happened, and I could not endure pain.

It was the same bare cubicle, but this time a big wooden chair stood close to the wall. The windows above were shuttered, and the room was humid and warm, smelling of paint and cigarette smoke.

On the floor was a piece of machinery with handles and electric wires extending from it. They motioned for me to sit in the chair, and it was then that Tarzan became all efficiency; with canvas straps, he fastened my arms and chest to the back of the chair, spread my legs and tied them to the legs of the chair. I looked at White Sidewall, at the other two, but they seemed uninterested while Tarzan did his job.

White Sidewall examined the straps. Satisfied that they were secure, he spoke to me. “You know, Mr. Samson, we did not like your answers yesterday; you were not telling the truth. Now we have to be more careful.”

“Sir,” I said, looking at Tarzan, who was checking the contraption and its wires. “Will you be specific? What question did I not answer truthfully?”

White Sidewall ignored my question. “Now, please give us the correct answers. We know that a shipment of guns has landed on the Pacific coast, close to the town of Baler. These guns are for you. Can you tell us where these guns are now and who is in charge of distributing them?”

I did not know of any arms shipment, or how one would be distributed. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said.

White Sidewall nodded toward Tarzan, who returned to me with the wires; at their ends were tongs, and he attached them to my scrotum. They pinched a little. I realized then that the machine was some generator or transformer, such as what they used in the signal corps of the army. Tarzan squatted before the box his hands on the knobs.

“All right then, who is in charge of recruitment in the Northern Quezon sector?”

My legs were weightless and my throat ached. “Sir,” I said, “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I will tell you all about the Directorate. I did that yesterday, the members, who they are, where they live — anything that I know, I will tell you. But people in Quezon Province … I don’t know anyone.”

White Sidewall nodded at Tarzan again, and slowly the man started turning a knob. It came like a sharp claw tearing at my genitals, and the pain was so severe I gasped for breath, grasped the arms of the chair. Tarzan turned the knob off. His face was wreathed with smiles. Now he stood up and took the tongs off my scrotum, then he started fingering my penis. His fingers smoothed the head caressingly, all the while his dark, pimpled face was upturned to me, grinning. I looked at the sharply burning eyes and immediately realized that he was a homosexual. He returned to his seat before the infernal machine.

“We are experts, Mr. Samson, in extracting information,” White Sidewall assured me. “So please don’t make it difficult for us and for yourself. You have seen how considerate we can be. You had a good breakfast yesterday, and we will return you to the Barrio, I promise you, with not a wound on your body, or with any sign that would mean we did not do our job with delicadeza. That is the word, right? So why don’t you help us and we will do everything for you in return?”

“I will, I will,” I cried. “I will tell you everything I know.”

“So then,” White Sidewall said, “tell us about your arms depots in Manila. Who maintains them. Surely, you know this.”

I wracked my head. Was there any time that this was talked about? Had Professor Hortenso ever at any moment slipped into saying that there were such depots? I closed my eyes and tried to think; there was nothing that I knew, there was nothing I could say. I shook my head.

It did not come slowly; it was a sudden deluge of pain, so sharp and vicious and so searing, I screamed as I had never screamed before, beyond the capacity of my lungs, beyond the capacity of my body. The animal voice I heard was not mine; it belonged to some poor, tormented devil whose hour had come. It was a pain of indescribable intensity, the blackest of black, which spread faster than lightning from my loins to my entire being.

Then it stopped, and, gasping, sweating and weak, I begged my tormentors not to do it again, in the name of God, of human decency, that I did not know anything, that I would tell them anything they wanted to know if I knew it, but please, not again, not again.

“All right then,” White Sidewall said, a smile lacing his lean, iron face. “Tell us slowly, very clearly, who are those in Manila who are in the shadow directorate — those who are not known to the public. You know, Mr. Samson, that you are a member of a conspiracy to overthrow by force a democratically elected government. You know that your National Directorate is just a front, that underneath is another organization. You might be a member of it.”

Again, I thought hard, our meetings, our discussions, my talks with Professor Hortenso, even with Puneta. No matter how hard I tried, I could not tell him anything about a shadow directorate.

“Sir, I don’t know. Please, I don’t know.”

That is the last I remember, for the pain came in a horrible explosion and I blacked out.

When I regained consciousness, it was already dark, and I was back in the room, cold and naked. I groped for my clothes; they were nowhere. Weak and with no one outside knowing where I was, I decided that I would never be subjected to that kind of torture again, that at the first opportunity, I would attack and try to escape — die perhaps, but I would try. I remembered the scream I heard the first night and realized that there was no mercy here; if they could do what they did to me to a woman who could not fight, they would be capable of doing worse than they had already done. I was not going to find out what that would be.

I tried to reconstruct the ride. It had taken about half an hour in afternoon traffic. We must be somewhere in Caloocan, or No-valiches; the van had not taken too many turns and the ride had been smooth most of the way. Now, there was no sound of traffic, not even of habitation, of people, and in the stillness of the night I shuddered with the dread that already possessed me. There was nothing to identify them, and if I lived through this torture, I am sure that there would be no wound on my body. If I died they would most probably dispose of my body here.

I was hungry, but no longer did I crave food or water. They did not matter anymore, and I wondered if those who fasted really missed food or suffered the pangs of hunger.

I decided that if I were to get out of this, I would write about it, tell all not just to the Brotherhood, or in the school paper, but to the editors of the national papers who had been sympathetic to us. But who would believe me? What evidence would I bring? To whom would I point?

I should have gone to sleep, to conserve whatever strength I had left, but I could not, for thoughts of revenge, of escape crowded my mind. As in the first night, it was a long, long time before I dropped off into a listless sleep.

When I woke the room was already bright, and by the door was the usual plastic cup of stale coffee, some soggy pan de sal, a piece of fried meat, a plastic pitcher filled with water, and a small hand towel.

I ate everything and then went to sleep again. I was roused in the afternoon. Tarzan was at the door, and the very sight of him chilled me. I had grown to hate him with all my heart, and if I ever saw him again I would most certainly kill him. But this time, he came with another plastic tray of food, and there was even a bottle of ice-cold Coca-Cola on the tray. My first impulse was to knock him down with a flying kick, but I knew that the place and the time were not opportune.

He placed the tray on the floor without a word then slammed the door. By the early evening I was filled with misgivings, and I began to wonder what was behind the new and kindly treatment. Were they softening me up for another session with the electric generator? Was this a psychological trick that would leave me wide open and ready to admit everything and anything? I had read about mind-conditioning in the Korean war, in the Communist countries, and I realized how easy it was to bend the mind. Yes, I would admit anything, the worst crimes they could ascribe to me, if only to be free from the devil machine. I realized I was not made of steel, I was not going to be a hero for the Brotherhood.

It all came back, too, what Ka Lucio had said: the Huks who were captured by the Japanese, the Constabulary, or civilian guards did not talk. He had told Toto and myself of the water cure, how slivers of bamboo were driven into their hands and, still, not a word from them. Was it the same with us? I doubted it. Why weren’t we made of stronger stuff? Had we been weaned too late? Did we lead such soft, pampered lives? Or did we not believe in what we said, in the purpose for which we had banded together?

A long night, faces aglow with love, scenes of my childhood — the brown irrigation ditches brightened with the purple of water lilies, dew-washed mornings. What was I doing in this abysmal place? What evil force pitched me here?

I held my penis; it was no longer numb, but was extremely tender. Even a feather touch seemed to inflame it. What had they done to me? Had they castrated me in flesh and in spirit?

I went to sleep, now used to the mosquitoes. Sometime in the night it drizzled and was iron cold, but there was no blanket to warm me. I woke up late in the day, and the coffee at my door was no longer warm. Toward afternoon voices rasped outside my door, and when it opened, White Sidewall and his gang were there.

It was always White Sidewall who talked to me throughout, and now he sounded contrite: “I am very sorry, Mr. Samson. But since we have decided to free you, I hope that you will forgive us for what happened. If you were in our place, you would understand.”

Shit, I said to myself.

“You will now shower. When you are ready, we will take you back to Tondo.”

They took me to the toilet that I had cleaned; it was spotless, just as I had left it. The water felt delicious and I lingered under it.

My clothes were on the chair outside the bathroom and I put them on. They blindfolded me, this time tightly. They walked me outside and helped me into the van — I knew its smell by now.

But they did not take me back to Tondo; they lied to me, cheated me, for when they removed my blindfold and opened the van doors, I recognized immediately the surroundings, the atmosphere. We were in the Ermita police station.

A line of brown Metrocom buses, windows covered with wire mesh, clogged the street and were filled with young people, some of them with white headbands, some with bandages on their faces. There had been a demonstration at the American embassy and the demonstrators were being hauled to Crame.^‡ Now the buses were pulling out and the spillover crowd of students were waiting for their ride.

“The station is full; you can see we have no more room here,” the policeman at the desk was saying. “They have to go to the city jail. Why don’t you take him to Crame? You have all the room there.”

White Sidewall shook his head. “I have a date and I am already late. No, just do whatever you must with him.”

Another policeman in civilian clothes asked me questions, which he typed, and after that, I was fingerprinted, then they hustled me off to a mosquito-infested corner where I waited for the next hour.

Should I have protested then? Should I have screamed and lashed away at the police pigs and my torturers? I thought about it later; I did right appearing meek and submissive. I was a prisoner no matter what the law said; I did not carry a gun — they did.

A police van finally came at dusk, and together with the leftovers that could not be taken by the Metrocom buses, we were herded off to the city jail.

A brief ride, through Quiapo and its environs, the shops shuttered with plywood, the sidewalks piled with garbage, the low stone embankments in the middle of the street plastered with our slogans and posters.

We went down the underpass then made a U-turn; I had not realized that the city jail was here, beyond a cratered street and crumbling, old buildings roofed with rusting tin.

I must get in touch with someone and the first person who came to mind was Betsy. At the jail reception, I rang her number and was told by the maid that she was still in Bacolod for the semester break, which I knew but had hoped that she had not gone or had returned. Father Jess — but there was no phone in the kumbento. Professor Hortenso had no phone either, and at this time of the school year there would be no one in his office. I tried it nonetheless, but there was no reply. Then I thought of Puneta. But I did not want to be beholden to him, not even in this moment of need.

The policemen in civilian clothes at the reception desk were not pleased that we had to come in at night. They separated the girls and sent them to the brigade close to the entrance. We had to strip and be examined for drugs and weapons, then we were shunted off to the different brigades.

By now I had become inured to the discomfort of not having a mat or a blanket, but some of the boys were grumbling, saying they were not criminals, that they should see their lawyers. The sergeant who manned the desk and glowered at us said we could do that in the morning, that at least we had a roof over our heads.

I walked through a dimly lighted courtyard and crossed over through a barbed-wire gate that was padlocked for the night, then shown the building where I was to sleep.

It was dimly lighted, but I could make out the shapes of those asleep on the wooden bunks, stretched like carcasses, most of them half naked. Though it was already November, the heat and the humidity were still oppressive even at night, and the heat, particularly, seemed to cling like some stringent glue to the very pores of the skin. No one stirred and there did not seem to be any place for me. I squatted on the stone floor. Clothes were strung on wires, and beyond the grilled windows I could see the rooftops of Recto, some still ablaze with neon. Mosquitoes and the sounds of the city drifted in. I thought I would never be able to sleep, but reclining against the cement wall, I dozed off only to waken in the night to a wild screaming in the next brigade — as if a man was going through what I underwent. No one was disturbed, no one stirred. I was, indeed, in another dimension.

It was still dark when the brigade started stirring, and by daybreak we were all up. A single line formed at the toilet at the end of the brigade and I joined it. A middle-aged man, perhaps forty or so, was behind me; he grinned, “So you are the one who arrived last night.” I nodded.

The young inmates studied me. “You can put your clothes in that corner and sleep at the far end if you wish,” the man said. “You are new here, so you must know the rules. The king is Bing-Bong over there—” he pointed to a sturdy, bald-shaved man of thirty at the gate; he was looking at me and smiling. “You do whatever he tells you. We do whatever he tells us. To disobey is to be punished. No harm will come to you if you do what you are told.”

I wanted to tell him to shut up, but he seemed so friendly, and I did not really know what new ordeal I was to go through. He also had that look of having lived a long time; there was that tiredness and dumb resignation in his thin, pinched face, as if he were a chicken caught in the rain, all wet and with no shelter to go to.

I was the only one thrown into this brigade; the others were assigned to another building. Now I could see the whole jail. The battered buildings were arranged like spokes in a wheel with the main office and reception area, through which we entered, in the middle, topped by a low rusting tower. This was the Old Bilibid prison — the National Penitentiary — before it was transferred to Muntinglupa, as Chicken explained again.

The day wore on in tedious idleness, for there was nothing to do, nothing to read. We stayed in the cement courtyard, most of us in shorts, and I could see now the tattoos on arms, legs, chests, and backs, just as I had seen them in the Barrio, emblems of that other world which Roger himself wore with pride. One even kept his head perpetually shaved, for it was there that the tail of a snake was curled and the body ran down the back of his neck, coiled around his torso and down to his penis — the snake’s head being the penis head itself.

Chicken was some sort of emissary or chief clerk, and it was his job to acquaint all newcomers with the rules of the brigade — rules the prisoners themselves enforced because within the jail there was another law — not the law of those who guarded us.

There were no tattoos on Chicken’s skinny arms or chest. “I am too old for that,” he said, laughing. Then he told me why he was in jail. A rich man’s son who loved women and fast cars and was drunk most of the time had run over and killed someone. He did not stop. The people who saw the accident had taken down his license plate number and that was how he was tracked down; the victim’s relatives did not want any settlement, the bastard must go to jail, and because he was a rich man’s son that could not be. But justice must be done, the crime must be punished. It did not matter that Chicken did not even know how to drive — that was not important; what mattered was his confession.

“I was given five thousand pesos. Five thousand pesos!” Chicken said. “And then, of course, there is the thousand pesos every month — every month. For the duration of my being here. And my son, he comes here every week you know, together with my wife, to bring me things. You know, we don’t eat enough here and one gets tired of fish and kangkong, fish and kangkong. You know.”

I nodded.

“And then, of course, the best lawyers defended me. When I get out there will be another five thousand. Where else can you find something like that? Here, I can eat regularly. And when I get sick, at least there is some medicine.”

“How do I get out of here?” I asked.

“If you are poor you cannot get out. There are no rich people in jail. They can afford bail, the best lawyers. They can even buy judges.”

“I am poor,” I said. “A self-supporting student. But I am innocent. I have not committed any crime. I swear to you …”

Chicken looked at me, his small sad eyes crinkling in a smile. “Who is innocent and who is guilty?” He shook his head. “The poor are always guilty and the rich are always innocent. Get some lawyer to stand for you. But while you are here, you must follow the rules — theirs and ours.”

“But the law—”

“The police, what do you think they care for? Their pay, first of all — and the more they can get, through foul means if necessary, the more they will get it. They are not here to help us; they are here to maintain order so that we will continue being what we are — poor.”

And it came to me clearly then as it never did before, the truth that this kind of order was not for me. Look at our Barrio. What did it need? Running water, so we would not get typhoid, and toilets, simple public toilets, nothing fancy, nothing expensive, but these could not be built, not by the government, not by the civic organizations. Why should they? Everyone up there was comfortable as long as we were down here. It was as simple as that. And this jail — it was so easy to tear it down, to build cell blocks that did not leak, and toilets that did not smell. And the greatest enemy, boredom, what was there to dispel it, to defeat it? The violence, of course, was the ultimate relief. It also sustained the power of those who watched over us, of those who wanted us deeper in the bog.

My mornings were tinged with gloom and uncertainty; my thoughts concerned that most basic of needs, food, and what there was was niggardly, unfit for human beings, but we were not humans anymore. Old rice with worms and pebbles in it, and dried fish that must have lain in some dank and foul storeroom for ages. It was no different at lunch or supper, and those of us who had no money had no choice, and we devoured it while those who were able to wrangle money from visitors had the canteen to go to, where one could have coffee boiled over three times, the usual cornerstone fare, moldy pieces of pastry, some candy, a few sorry-looking bananas, and other fruit rejects from Divisoria.

I really should not complain, for in that bleak compound I had three meals a day for doing nothing, though on the first day I could barely swallow the rice — not only was it sour, but it was also half-cooked, and as it was brought to the brigade in battered tin drums, it was covered with flies.

It was either the food or the foul air, but I could recognize it at once in the harsh light of day — the inmates had that unmistakable pallor of people in Tondo, the dirty, mottled, pallid skin that hunger brought to people. Indeed, I saw it then so clearly, so implacably real. The Barrio was the far more insidious prison, for while it had no walls, the people in it were really no different from those in this jail.

Something else happened to me in the city jail that I do not want to dwell upon, because it confirms what Roger had told me — the depravity that I had refused to believe and why I was helpless in the face of the power that had defiled me.

I should have had an intimation of it when, several times that day, Bing-Bong came around saying that he had not defecated for some time. But I did not understand their language then.

I could not fight even if I had wanted to; there were four of them who pressed me down on my stomach, pinioned my legs and arms. I felt the sharp point of an ice pick, perhaps the sharpened end of a thick wire, pressed against the back of my neck, the drip of something oily — cooking oil, they later told me — going down my buttocks, Bing-Bong, the King, grunting behind me, pumping, breathing hard and finally falling on my back like an obnoxious carcass.

This, too, was what Roger had spoken about. I was now initiated into this dismal world peopled by those whom I thought I would call my brothers. They were not my kin, for their legs and arms were tattooed. There was this malignant odor of cuspidors and urinals about them and they had the countenance of sick rooms. Their long hair was not the long hair of youth but of necessity. What did they know of dialectics, of responsibility, of nationalism as these have been dinned into us? They were here and I loathed them, for I knew that I could be any one of them, kindred in spirit, if I did not get out as fast as I could.

I was released on the fifth day of my incarceration. Someone was killed that night in the brigade next to ours, and through the iron grills I saw the body carried out of the compound as if it were a butchered pig, the body punctured with knife wounds — faucets, they called it. Chicken told me there was a killing also in our brigade the previous week. But no one talked — and no one asked questions.

I did not even know who had been killed, it was enough that the police saw it necessary to free us, for, in truth, no charges had been filed; we had been detained — that was all.

I went through the same cubicle where we were examined and, again, I stripped to be searched, then went to the desk beyond the wooden railing. The sergeant was eating noodles from a plastic plate; he looked at me perfunctorily and then ransacked his drawer for a sheaf of papers that he brought out, meanwhile looking at me with beady eyes, his mouth bulging with food. The ballpoint pen at his desk refused to write so he stuck it between his lips, moistening its tip, then checked the papers until he found my name.

He kept me standing before his desk, but even at that distance I could smell his underarm odor, so strong and overpowering, I wondered which was stronger, the stench of the prison or that of his body.

“Here,” he said finally, taking a gulp from the tall glass of water at his right, “this is your name, is it not?”

I looked at it: Samson, José.

“Sign here,” he pointed to the blank bottom line.

I bent over the page and started reading. He stood up and the blow on my head made my ears ring. “I told you to sign,” he shouted, “not to read it.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and scrawled my name hastily.

“Now, go!”

I walked out of the reception area and into a muddy yard festooned with laundry strung on the barbed wires and on the steel girders that fenced the cell blocks from each other.

I was told I was free — and I was shown the gate, beyond the yard cluttered with jeeps and old cars, past the small pond with the image of the Virgin shielded by a canopy of leaves, the stench of prison still all around me. Then I was out into the torrid heat of Quezon, the crowds eddying around me. I was in familiar territory close to my own university.

Back in the barrio I thought it best to tell Father Jess and Tia Nena only that I had merely gone to the province on an unexpected trip for the Brotherhood. I wanted to think about what had happened, ingest it, pummel it, conclude from it.

I wondered why it happened at all and what it had done to me. I have not accepted, and will never accept, the mindless act of Tarzan or the depravity of Bing-Bong as machinations of a supreme will, or even of fate. These men and what they did were the end products of a modern malaise that is spreading like a blob and covers, drowns, disfigures everything — the green of leaves, the fragrance of flowers, the blue of the sky. It is the evil that greed has wrought and these men were transformed; the air they breathed, the food in their stomachs, the sights that pleased them were all infected. They had died, but they did not know it. Job is not the hero, then, but the villain — he had known success and affluence, but it was not God who took these away from him. It was Job himself who prepared his own downfall. Salvation did not come in his avowal of faith but in his renouncing the values that he had cherished. My torture was not punishment then, nor the humiliation that was heaped on me a diminution of my being; these were forms of revelation — an awakening from darkness, the coming to life of ashes. If only! Yes, if only the mind were not part of the body. This is my curse — that while I could distort and contort the mind, it was the body that yielded, it was the body that felt and lived and died.

I had thought of death in those nights that I could not sleep. The young do not think of death, but I have, so I am old. And much as I love life, I would have to bid it good-bye someday, perhaps soon, and it was not the living now that really mattered, but the how of it.

In my room the night I was finally freed, the memory of my torture came again, bringing a black, shapeless dread to my very core. I tried to banish my fear of having become impotent and wondered if I would ever be a man again. In the morning, when my bladder was full and I should have awoken with it erect and sticking up from under the sheet, I realized with some anguish that it was limp.

I asked for fifty pesos from Father Jess, saying I needed it badly, and then went to Makati.

It was past noon when I got to the Colonial and the after-lunch crowd from the nearby restaurants had not yet trickled in.

Lily had already checked in. After a brief shower, I went back to the cubicle. She was waiting at the door. “So, you are rich again,” she said as I drew her in.

She was an expert, she could do what Betsy could not, but I could not tell either of them what had happened, the details that degraded and humiliated me.

“Lily,” I said, “I did not come here for a massage. I have problems, emotional problems. Please help me.”

She laughed, that soft easy laughter I always liked in her. “Oh, Pepe, whatever your excuses, I like you just the same.” She bent down and kissed me, and I savored her moist lips, the saccharine recesses of her mouth.

She pulled away the towel I had draped around my waist, then sat on the narrow shelf and ran her fingers lightly over my chest. My skin tingled, that sharp, delicious shivering that flowed down to my navel. But it stopped there. Then her hands floated down my legs, behind my knees, my buttocks. But though I felt sensually, delightfully aroused, I was not responding in the only way I wanted to.

“It is useless, Lily,” I said grimly.

I was about to rise, but she pushed me down. “You must concentrate,” she said. “Think of nothing else but me, and what I’ll give you.”

I lay on my back again, alive to the smell of cologne, the chatter of people in the passageways. Her expert hands could do nothing.

Then she bent over. I closed my eyes and surrendered — all of me in her mouth, all of me waiting, and then, after a while, she paused and when I opened my eyes, she was gazing at me happily. “I told you I could do it,” she said and rose. I had not been sure of what she was doing until she had mounted me, letting it slide neatly into place, then she gripped it, moistly, warmly, and started to gyrate.

“This is called ‘the helicopter,’ Pepe,” she said exultantly.

* Wen, Manong: wen—“yes” in Ilocano dialect; Manong—form of address to an older person.

† Paki: Please.

‡ Crame: Camp Crame; Philippine army base.

Tomorrow Is Ours

I left the Colonial, grateful to Lily for restoring my manhood and at the same time saddened by the knowledge that she had fallen down the abyss. I had said earlier only a slight nudge would be her undoing. I did not blame her.

Looking back, I understood only too well how it had been with me as well, how shamefully craven I had been in my desires. I was convinced that it is the rich who should not compromise because they are strong, not we who are poor, who cannot be steadfast or unswerving when our needs cry for satisfaction.

I cursed myself then for not being made of ironwood or some such granite material so I would be able to withstand the hunger that always knotted my stomach, the gross temptations that had betrayed me. Yet I have known early enough that all of living is a compromise, this was what was pounded into me in Cabugawan, from Mother and my aunt, who never earned enough from all their labors. I knew this even after I had gone with Betsy to that fancy French restaurant, because I had to return to Tondo and to a larder that was ample only because I lived in the kumbento.

We compromise ourselves the day we are born. If we are looking for the original sin, there it is: our incapacity to live honestly with ourselves because we are human, because we are shackled by custom, by obligations, and we accept compromise only in the light of our individual conscience, answerable as we are only to ourselves.

This is a world not of black and white but of grays, and it is really in this huge gray geography where we act out our fates. I envy those who have chosen the black or the white, for, to them, they have simplified living. There are no more storms within them to be stilled, no more muddied choices; there is only one intractable way, clear and straight, and they cannot deviate from it.

Toto would not compromise, and if he had lived he would not have changed one bit. He would have come out of it more determined, more convinced not just of the inevitability or the necessity of his revolution, but of its righteousness. This is our hope and our curse because the righteousness exalts, and our curse because we would pursue it as Ka Lucio pursued it long after he, himself, had failed.

But I have learned from the fretfulness of older men, and what, after all, did I need in order to live? I brought back to mind those days that my stomach soured from its being filled with nothing but those abominable greens, and I knew that I could subsist on them forever, the days I saw nothing but the limits of Cabugawan, and within those confines I had wakened in the morning with wonder at the grass wet with dew, a sky swept clean. This feeling surged in me, I could do anything and God up there was smiling. Indeed, there was nothing for me to expiate in this miasma called Tondo, nothing in the world has changed but me. I had known what was beyond the stone highway and the railroad tracks. I had traversed not distance but depth, and when the discovery was over and revelation had come not as wisdom but as masochistic sorrow, there was still this me that longed not for more journeys or more sensual knowledge, but the pith, the marrow of living, why so many of us are mired in Tondo. This is, of course, no cabalistic question. I had known the answer way back, only now it must be made real.

I must no longer compromise.

Marcos, jail the young, jail all those who oppose your oligarchy and your grandiose plans. Imprison us, torture us, for by doing so you will swell our piteous ranks, you will temper us with the harshness of truth so that we will rise from the flames singed and wounded but, by God, infinitely more steadfast and strong.

Then, November. The rains no longer lash down as frequently as in the earlier months, but the alleys of the Barrio are still murky with puddles, and from under the houses and along the shallow canals the odor of putrefaction rises like an implacable curse. But November presages Christmas, and even before the middle of the month, the radios are already noisy with carols, so that while there is darkness all around, there is, somehow, the promise of light.

The Brotherhood had been very active, and Roger and his boys had drawn up a list of the poorest of our poor. They had started making the rounds of the offices in Santa Cruz and Binondo asking for gift pledges.

Even Tia Nena, now that Toto was no longer with us, had to think far ahead; this morning, she was aglow — not that absent-minded expression she had on her face sometimes, but a beatific smile that radiated warmth. She came to my room and started poking into the boxes that were piled in one corner, the Christmas lights that we would string in front of the church, the lanterns that folded that were to be dusted and hung in the lobby of the kumbento. She had been flitting about with this happy countenance the whole morning and it seemed as if she had gotten over the death of Toto.

She had found the colored lights, the sockets, and tested them. She sat on the stool opposite me, folding her gnarled, thin hands on her lap, her eyes squinting in the sunlight that poured down the alley into our room.

“Pepe, you have been here a long time. And you have done many things, made changes …”

“Not really, Tia,” I said, wondering what was in her mind.

“Well, you have. Padre Jesus is happy with the Brotherhood — the young people working together, their attendance in church, their activities.”

“It is nothing,” I said. “I just befriended them, that’s all.”

“No,” she said, “it is not just being friends. You know them, you understand them.”

“Because I come from a village, Tia. I never really left it.”

After some silence, “Pepe, there is something you do not know and I do not think Padre Jesus ever told you. I come from the same town as you.”

I looked at her incredulously.

“You do not believe it?” she asked, her eyes crinkling. She was now speaking in Ilocano. “I do not speak like this often. There are many things I want to forget. Padre Jesus can tell you — he picked me up in Divisoria where I was staying, sleeping in the empty stalls, helping whoever wanted to be helped. It is not difficult for an old woman to stay alive.”

“I pity you, Tia.”

“There are events I don’t remember now — months I was not well, that I was not myself as they would say. But everything is clearer now and I am grateful to Padre Jesus. You said you came from Cabugawan? Of course, I knew people there. I am from Sipnget. We — my father— They came from the Ilocos, too. Did you know that there was a big brick house in the town? It was burned, rebuilt, then burned again. Did you know that?”

I nodded.

“I worked there,” she said, her eyes downcast. “The first house, that was where I learned Spanish — I was very young.” Then she was quiet and her eyes misted.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, Tia.”

“I had two sons, Victor and Luis, but I lost them both. And my father, too. So I have nothing — nothing but memories. And when I lost them my mind gave way. But even now, I still carry with me their letters. And sometimes, when I want to go back to the past, I read them one by one. One by one.”

She stood up and went to the open window; outside, the sun was a flood upon the Barrio.

“How is it now in Sipnget?” she asked, but did not expect a reply. “The fields must be golden, the rice as high as a man. I remember the palms, the martins there. In the dry season we used to tap them for sap that we sold as drink or boiled into sugar. You know that, don’t you?”

I nodded again.

“And the tobacco fields in Carmay. I wonder if they still plant tobacco there. They used to grow so tall, their leaves so huge. We would string them and dry them below the houses. Ours were the best, good enough to be ba-ac. You know that?”

I nodded although I was not too sure. “This Christmas, would you like to go to Rosales again, Tia? A short visit?” I asked.

“And whom would I see there? I don’t know where my sons are buried, or my father. I don’t know where to go and pray for their souls.”

“You can come home with me.”

“Yes,” she said, turning to me, her face agleam. “I should go back. I hope that day will come very soon.”

With Toto gone, she was drawn closer to me as we consoled each other with our presence, our thoughts. She had asked about Betsy, how she was, and because I told her that Betsy was in the Brotherhood, that she was in the same demonstration where Toto had been killed, she now regarded her with some affection.

“How does the future look to you, Pepe?” she asked after a while. “If you go back to Rosales, will you bring Betsy with you?”

I shook my head.

“Her family, I am sure, looks down on you,” she said. “But you are smart; you will flourish without help from anyone, least of all her family. When you have done that, then they will respect you.”

“You are not wrong, Tia,” I said. “Her parents loathe me. They are sending Betsy away, very soon, to America, so that she will no longer see me.”

Tia Nena shook her head. “I hope she loves you enough to wait, maybe a long time, but you never know how steadfast women can be. You will see. And someday, I hope she will marry you.”

But Betsy did not marry me. She came to Tondo for the last time in late November; her father had returned and her mother was going to take her to New York the next day. She had just returned from Bacolod, where she had spent the semester break.

I had gone to Divisoria with Tia Nena to help carry the food that she bought for the week, and when we got to the Barrio, Betsy’s Volks was parked in the alley that led to the church. She had enough problems; I decided not to tell her about my torture and the city jail.

Father Jess was with her in the kumbento. She had had a long talk with him, for he looked serious and said we should be alone. She had acquired a bit of a tan and her hand, when she held mine, had roughened a little.

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“What I came to tell you.”

The receiving room of the kumbento was shabby — a cracked cement floor, uneven, wooden sidings, images of the Virgin and the Nazarene, a shelf of religious publications and high-backed rattan chairs that had begun to fall apart. But everything was clean, Roger and I saw to that — no mud, no dust, even the cement floor was polished. Although the cool season had started and there was a long pause in the rains, it was still gummy and warm, and beads of sweat glistened on her brow. I reached out, caressed her forehead and brought my wet fingertip to my tongue, tasting her sweat. “Very stale,” I said.

She smiled, shaking her head. “I am so tense not knowing what to think, and you keep teasing me.”

Though she was perspiring, her hand was cold.

“Pepe,” she finally said, blushing and unable to look at me. “Please marry me.”

I wanted to embrace her then — how precious little time we had! I tried to suppress the tremor in my voice. “Betsy, I do not have a job. I am not even finished with college …”

“I don’t want to go to New York,” she whispered. “And I don’t want you to go to the mountains. I want you with me.”

I shook my head.

“I have some savings, about twenty thousand. I have been quite frugal, you know, and I am from Negros. No new dresses the last three years unless Mama bought them. Or Papa. I have some jewelry. And the Volks is in my name — I can sell it.”

I shook my head again. “Please don’t be angry. I don’t want it this way.”

“I knew you would say that. But we can live cheaply anywhere. I will not complain … I promise.”

I leaned over and pressed her hand. It was still cold.

“You will not mind in the beginning,” I said. “Then you will be missing many things — comforts you have been used to. And I don’t want you to make sacrifices for me. You … you caring, it is more than enough. Besides, you are very young.”

“I am twenty. I do not need their permission anymore.”

“Not that,” I said. “You will be angry with me later. That is in the cards. You will regret what you have done. You don’t know how it is to be hungry. How to live in places like this. I want you to have a good life. I want no regrets.”

“I know what I am doing,” she was determined.

“Did you tell Father Jess?”

She nodded.

“Everything?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But he guessed. No, Pepe, I am not pregnant, but I wish I were so I can have a hold on you”—she pinched my arm—“then you would have to make an honorable woman out of me.”

I would not have shirked that responsibility, but I also did not want to appear as having taken advantage of her. Always, I could not forget Carmen Villa and my father.

“Betsy,” I said, “we are one.”

She looked at me gratefully and whispered, “Thank you … thank you.”

“We must wait. You will go to New York and be there for a year, two years. You may forget me, but I will not forget you.”

We were silent again.

She knew I had made up my mind. “Tell Father Jess I am leaving. And come with me. We cannot part like this.”

Father Jess was in his room, waiting. “Well,” he asked, “what have you decided?”

“I cannot do it, Father,” I said. “What can I offer her? What kind of life would she live?”

He was silent even as we went down to the reception room. Betsy had stood up and was looking out of the window, into the alleys, the decrepit homes, the laundry flapping in the morning breeze, the bare-bottomed and skinny children playing in the multipurpose center.

They talked in Visayan, some of which I understood, then they switched to Spanish, saying good-bye, and Father Jess asked when she would be back, and she said, “If Pepe wants me back, immediately!” And I said in Spanish, “I will always want you here, but life decrees that you should be there.”

It was the first time she heard me speak in Spanish and she was delighted. “Pepe, you never told me!”

Father Jess said, “He is now trying to write in Spanish, too.”

He followed us to the door. “I will perform the wedding gladly, Betsy,” he said. “It would be an honor. So hurry back.”

We drove quietly to Malate. Again, she parked at the churchyard and we walked over to the Mabini coffee shop. It was the second time we were there, and as in the first, we were again beset by this impermeable gloom. “We will miss you not only in the committee,” I said, trying to cheer her up, “but when we plan the big demonstration in January.”

“Write to me about it. Write to me every day if you can. I will write to you every day.”

“It costs money,” I said. “I will write often, but mail the letters once a week.”

She settled for that. Our hamburgers and coffee came. The coffee shop wallpaper was in green, so was the upholstery.

“And my thoughts,” I told her, “are also green.”

We would go to our first motel again. “You will see the Golden Gate bridge in San Francisco. Write to me about it.”

“With my blood,” she said, and we laughed for the first time. We laughed so hard, the waitress looked at us, puzzled; the last time we were here, we had not bothered to eat. Now, we ate with ravenous appetites. I ordered two more hamburgers to take out.

I had somehow hoped that we would get the same room, but we did not. We were here in the beginning and, now, the end. We took our time; she lay beside me in that soft wide bed and we just kissed and talked, savoring our nearness. Her flight the following day would be in the late afternoon. She did not want me at the airport, but I said I would go, that I would keep to the shadows and watch her from a distance, far from her friends and her parents. Even if I did get close, they would probably not recognize me, but hell, I did not want Betsy to leave with me unable to see her.

The hamburgers came in handy before noon, but we were still hungry, so we ordered soft drinks and fried chicken. When the boy came with our order and asked us how long we would stay, I told him, till dusk. She was supposed to be out with friends, saying good-bye; it did not matter anymore if her parents found out. They would have their way anyway.

I was not going to make the day more bleak. “One day,” I said, “I would like to take you to a place I used to go to. Nothing like your hilltop. But it is also isolated — on a hill with no one there.”

“Your favorite spot?”

“You can call it that. An old steel bridge spans this creek and there were once rails on it. The train no longer comes so the rails were torn up, stolen and sold as scrap, but the high mound is there still. You walk on its crest, the grass thick upon it. Then you come to this black, rusting bridge and, below, the calmest, clearest pond, with reeds and lotuses. I used to swim there, gather snails, and I would sleep below the bridge, on one of the big, black girders. The whole world is quiet. Nothing but the wind rippling the water, the chirp of birds, and, above, the blue sky. Down the slope of the hill is a thatch-roofed shack with a split bamboo floor. The farmers rest in it during the harvesting or planting. I slept there once all night.”

“You were not afraid?”

“Mother was angry and she scolded me when I returned the next morning. What was there to be afraid of? The crickets, the dogs howling in the distant village? The cocks crowing?”

“We could sleep there one night,” she said.

“It may no longer be there,” I said. She was dreaming, as I was; she had never slept on a bamboo floor.

She opened her bag. “I wonder if your father did the same thing,” she said, bringing out her copy of Father’s book, and she let me read her inscription: To my dear husband — whose past, present, and future, I hope, may also be mine.

“Be kind to his memory,” she said. “I asked a lot of questions about him from Mama. That is why she is so concerned. He really did not have a chance. He committed suicide, that I now believe.”

“I will never do that,” I said.

“Live for me,” she said.

I pressed her hand.

“Read the last chapter again. It is the most perceptive commentary on us.”

“I will,” I promised her.

She drew out from her bag a small packet of black velvet. It contained two rings, silvery and shiny. She brought them close so I could see the inside. The bigger one had her name and the small one had mine. “Look at the date,” she said.

I had difficulty reading it.

“Remember?”

I do not have a good memory for dates but I knew.

“The first time,” she said.

I kissed her as she gave me her ring to slip onto her finger. It was quite heavy and I asked why.

“Platinum,” she said.

She took my left hand and slipped the ring on my finger. It fit snugly. “I was too optimistic, I guess,” she said. “But we are one nonetheless.”

I embraced her and promised myself I would never take it off. My chest was tightening. “There are things I will never understand,” I said, my throat sandpapery. “Simple things like … like breathing. And these precious things I will lose not to some enemy but to my own cowardice.”

“You are wrong,” she said. “It is not cowardice. It is honesty.”

“I am not honest. I have been selfish, and as your mother said, if I loved you, I would let you go, because with me there is no future.”

“I have made the choice,” she said, clinging to me.

“It is fate,” I said humbly.

“Don’t hide behind words.”

“I wish I could still hide,” I said. “But not anymore. I must face it. Here I am — unable to be with you, to have an open relationship. I must do what is right.”

“And what is that?”

“It sounds so melodramatic,” I said, “as if it is all lifted from those cheap Tagalog movies, the dialogues those nitwits are churning out for the housemaids. Let me tell you how and I’d like to listen to it myself, this big moment. Now really is the time for us to say good-bye—”

“You do not mean it,” she said, pressing her face to my chest.

“Of course, I mean it. But how can I forget? You are now part of my life,” the words were pouring out. “You are here within me, in my blood, the air in my lungs, the juices in my stomach. Listen now, what your mother wants is for you to have a good life, marry well— even someone ugly — but someone not like me, a castaway. What future is there with me? Nothing but sorrow. Your place is there, among your kind. You are asleep now, and when you wake up, what then?”

She said simply, “I want to be with you, awake or asleep.”

I disregarded her. “You will grow older and someone soon enough will come knocking on your door.”

She did not speak.

“Thank you, Betsy, for everything.”

She hugged me, her heart thrashing against my chest, her body shaking as she cried soundlessly. That would help ease this last sorrow I had inflicted on her.

The Dawn Is Red

I go back to Tondo, my accursed present, my consecrated future. I have learned so much here and I know myself now as I never did before. My needs were so basic — a stomach, for instance, that had to be filled. Contemplation is a luxury that could waylay and lull me into forgetting that my hunger was just a symptom of a far greater need … all those we emblazoned in the streets, our placards crying for justice, for revolution — they had sounded so hopelessly unreal. Not anymore.

Beyond the houses the sea slammed on the seawall, bringing with it the perennial stench of oil and rotting fish and all the accumulated smells of the cesspool that the bay had become. In the late evenings when the bray of traffic had died down and the living noises had been stilled, I sometimes went out to the narrow churchyard, the night arched above me, alive with the pungencies of the swamp and above the narrow ring of rooftops, the sky — how serene and distant the stars. It brought to mind how it was in the fields of Rosales at night when I was alone in that thatched farmer’s shed, surrounded by the dark that pulsed and heaved around me with the scent of grass, the crickets alive in the folds of the earth. It seemed then that I could hear my heart, my thoughts as they took shape, and it seemed, too, that there was peace — lasting and deep — only because I was alone.

Now I was alone again, surrounded by these melancholy shapes, these decrepit lives. I would always be alone, I could rely on no one but myself. A poet said that the strongest man is he who stands alone — but there was no strength in me, only this wanton disregard for time that would bring me nothing but unhappiness, a desolation of the spirit in which there would be no resurrection, no green shoot to nourish so that it would grow, as the bamboo grows. I would die, but this was no longer so horrible a fate, an abomination to be feared, for at least I would be able to do something with my life and not just breathe the foul air or fill to overflowing this pit that is my stomach.

On the day before the Misa de Gallo^* started Juan Puneta came to Tondo. He had left messages everywhere, in the kumbento, at the office of the school paper, at Professor Hortenso’s house, and once his driver came saying he wanted to see me. I had made excuses, but now there was no avoiding him. Father Jess received him as I was in the sacristy, helping Roger and the members of the Brotherhood string the colored lightbulbs for the church front.

“Ah, Pepito,” he said, embracing me like a brother he had not seen in ages. He was in a khaki safari suit. He smelled of cologne.

“I have wanted to see you for some time now. Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, “I have been working hard — you see, my scholarship …”

“I still would like very much to take you to the house. We have so many things to discuss.”

“But I have work to do. We are finishing the Christmas decorations and …”

“It is all right, Pepe,” Father Jess interrupted me. “Roger can take care of that.”

I turned to Father Jess, but he could not read my urgent signals, and having no more excuses, I sighed as Father Jess walked us to the door.

“He will be back before lunch, Padre,” Juan Puneta said.

A blue Mercedes 280 SE was parked on the street and it was Juan Puneta who drove.

“I have so many things to tell you,” he gushed. “But first, tell me how you have been. I hear that the next demonstration will really be big. Are you prepared for it — I mean for the violence that will surely come?”

“We are now prepared,” I said.

He was silent. “What about the things that the Huk commander was going to write?”

“Ka Lucio?”

He nodded.

“He was murdered,” I said. “Didn’t you know?”

He looked surprised.

“The police came, asked questions. It was not even mentioned in the newspapers. Who would care for an ex-Huk commander in the first place?”

“I hope you learned a lot from him,” Puneta said. We were going over Del Pan bridge and soon we would be in another country, the antiseptic, manicured boulevard, then the golden ghetto of Makati.

“Nothing. Nothing,” I lied. I had asked Cora after Ka Lucio’s funeral if there was anything he had written that I could read. But there was nothing; she knew of the ruled pad where he was writing, but it could not be found. We searched his bookcase, his desk, but it was not there.

“It is sad, very sad,” Puneta kept repeating and cracking his knuckles as we paused in the traffic.

Puneta’s house was at the other end of the Park, shaded by giant acacia trees on whose trunks clambered vines and orchids. At the gate he got out and unlocked the door, then we drove in. The grounds were surrounded by a tall ivy-covered wall — an expanse of green, well-trimmed grass, hedges. At the far end was a pool, and still farther, a stable.

Puneta parked in the driveway. No one was in the house, not a guard, not a maid. “The maids’ day off and they will not be back till five in the afternoon. As for my wife, she has gone with the kids to visit her mother. They will not be back till this afternoon. Which is very good — we can talk without interruption. Then we can go down and shoot, have a meal. I cook, you know. You can help. And someday, you should try my caldereta.”

This is it. This is where I pay back the five hundred.

We went to the kitchen where he prepared two cups of coffee. It was nothing like Tia Nena’s cubbyhole; it was airy and as wide as the whole kumbento itself; on one side, an array of stoves, ovens on the wall. On another, cabinets, a giant freezer, and a refrigerator. The breakfast nook as he called it adjoined the kitchen, actually an antiseptic-looking dining room by itself.

“I was not able to report to you on the money you gave me,” I said. “I gave three hundred pesos to Cora, Ka Lucio’s niece, for the funeral. I spent some of it myself — and, yes, I have found the best sauna in town.” I was watching him, looking for a sign that would betray him, but his ivory mestizo face was bereft of expression. “I have been to three of them, but the best is in Makati. The Colonial.”

Not even a flicker of interest.

“We should go there one day then. Now, if possible, but it does not really open till noon,” I continued.

“That’s interesting,” he merely commented. “Yes, we should go there. But that is pretty tame, Pepito. We can go to another place where there are girls — as well as boys.”

Now the proposition.

“It is quite expensive … but money is no problem. If you want girls. Or boys.”

I smiled. “I prefer girls,” I said. “As for the boys—”

“Are you willing to try?”

I was about to answer, but the phone jangled. He picked it up and said, “Hello,” then he spoke in Spanish. “Yes, but wait, there is someone here with me. I will answer you in the bedroom. Call again.” He hung up the phone and to me, he said in Tagalog, “A moment—”

He left and soon the phone rang again. On the second ring, when it was interrupted, I picked it up, too.

They were speaking in Spanish again: “Who is that with you?” the voice at the other end was anxious.

“Just one of those dumb village boys. But it is all right, I am here in the bedroom and he is in the kitchen. Besides, he cannot understand Spanish. What is it, chico?”

The man seemed frantic. “What is this I hear about another big demonstration in January? Shall we tell our men to work on the kids again? They want more money this time. After all there were more than ten killed in the last …”

“Of course, of course,” Juan Puneta said with exasperation. “They have to be there. Always, I don’t care how many get killed. They must simply make sure that the kids will blame the Metrocom, the police, for everything.”

“They already do that.”

“Make the fire hotter,” Puneta said, “and money is of no consequence, as you know. You can pick up my share at the Casino tomorrow.”

“The Army and Navy Club,” the other man said, “I have a lunch there.”

“All right then.”

“Anything new from Tondo or from Tarlac?”

“After that Huk commander in Tondo was disposed of, nothing new,” Juan Puneta said.

“Tomorrow then,” the man said, and hung up. I waited till Puneta had put the phone down; then I put mine down, too.

How neatly everything was falling into place. Mrs. Hortenso was right after all, and Betsy, too — one could depend on women and their intuition. But since men depend so much on logic and verifiable data, well, here they were. Betsy had told me how Puneta had traveled in style, the same way he had come to Tondo, in his big, fat Continental. He used a helicopter to ferry his ice, his caviar, and his pate to those distant and forgotten mountainfolds where he hunted — a reconnaissance of the battlefields of the future. His gun collection was public knowledge though few had seen it. How convenient it was for a rich man like him to have his arsenal right here, legitimate, open — all in the name of hobby.

I went to the cabinets where the saucers and cups were and started setting the table. The water had started to boil and I was taking it off the electric stove when he joined me.

“I am sorry for the interruption,” he said, “an important business call.” He saw what I had done and he smiled. “You really don’t waste time.” He brought the Nescafé. “A special European blend.” He continued, “We were talking about my favorite subject, sex. What have you got against boys?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing really.”

“That’s good. We will have plenty of time. Now, I must show you my shooting range.”

We left the coffee cups in the sink. I followed him across the vast, carpeted living room to a corridor lined with paintings, on to the master bedroom and beyond, a mirror with a carved gilt frame that occupied the whole end of the corridor. He pressed a button behind a small picture frame and the mirror swung open to reveal a red-carpeted stairway. It led down to a brilliantly lit cavern underneath the house.

“Surprise, surprise,” he said, grinning. “Only my best friends know this place, Pepito. You are one of the anointed few. It is completely soundproof.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“I have been collecting for a long time now,” he explained. A whole wall was lined with guns, carefully oiled. At one end of the hall were target frames, ever ready for shooting. He walked to the first cabinet. “There,” he said, “is one of the earliest guns used by the Spaniards in the eighteenth century. And that is a Mauser over there, used during the revolution. And yes, that blunderbuss over there. And lantaka—” he pointed to a Muslim brass cannon as stout as a coconut trunk.

“What is your favorite, sir?” I asked.

“Handgun or rifle?”

I didn’t know the difference.

“Well, these old ones — that Krag over there, those Garands, and these Thompsons. They are all serviceable. Even that Nambu machine gun over there—” a sleek, futuristic-looking gun, mounted on a tripod; it stood on a platform with six other machine guns. “You know, it is in working order. The Japanese made it, and according to ordnance intelligence it is the best machine gun the Japanese produced. The caliber is small, but its velocity is terrific.”

We walked over to a cabinet with more rifles and shotguns. About two dozen of them, and he paused before one particular long-barreled rifle. “This is the Winchester magnum,” he said. “It has range, power. It can stop a charging elephant in its tracks.”

“Have you shot one, sir?”

“Of course,” he said expansively. “I have been on safaris in Africa. In Ceylon, we hunted leopards. And, of course, Sumatran tigers—” He pointed to three tiger skins on the floor.

We stopped before a table case, glass-topped, and, within, an array of handguns — revolvers, automatics, and small-caliber pistols that could be held in one’s palm. He slid open the glass panel and picked out a revolver, its barrel a shiny blue. “This is considered the world’s finest revolver,” he said. “And I am partial to it. Revolvers don’t jam. Unlike automatics. Remember that shoot-out in a nightclub two months ago?”

He turned to me, the revolver in his hand. “The other fellow’s 45 jammed. That’s how he got killed. As you can see”—he held the gun before me—“it has a ventilated rib, adjustable ramp-type front sights, and it can use both the 357 magnum and the 38 special … and the magnum, of course, has great power.” He placed the revolver back in the case, then picked up the one beside it. He held it before me and this time, his face was really aglow. “And this … this is really my favorite. It’s the Smith & Wesson 44-caliber magnum. It has six bullets … here.” He let me hold the thing. It was heavy and massive. “The 8 3/8-inch barrel gives it great accuracy and power. The sights are adjustable. At a hundred yards, if you are really good, you can’t miss. It is the most powerful handgun in the world. I have six of them.”

He brought out another. “Loaded. All of them,” he warned.

We positioned ourselves at the shooting bar. After he adjusted my earmuffs his hands went down my arms and hips. I let him.

He moved away, stood at the bar, his feet planted apart, then he aimed and fired. Even with the earplugs, the roar was deafening.

He nudged at me. I aimed and fired and the gun almost jumped out of my hand. We raised our earmuffs.

“Actually,” he said, “the pros will tell you to shoot with both hands. It’s steadier that way.” We walked over to the targets. His was off center. Mine was a bull’s-eye. Beginner’s luck!

“Hey,” he said, squeezing my hand, “you are good!”

“The gun almost fell,” I said.

“Hold it tight,” he said. “And don’t breathe when you fire. Your finger should be light on the trigger. And don’t pull — squeeze.”

We went back to the shooting bar. “I can make bullets here,” he said. “I have gunpowder. So don’t throw away the empty shells.”

I asked what started him on this expensive and dangerous hobby.

“Fucking,” he said simply. “After shooting, I get a terrific erection and I feel like fucking till I am dead.”

Then I told him: “You should have done the shooting yourself at that Malacañang demonstration where so many were killed. You would have had a hundred orgasms.”

He looked at me surprised, puzzled.

“What are you trying to say?” He lowered his gun on the shooting bar. I still held mine.

“When you took that call I listened on the extension,” I said simply.

He drew back, the shock clear as sunlight on his face.

“What did you hear? You understand Spanish?”

“Everything, your contributions.” I went into the details.

He fumbled for words then straightened up, the smile still on.

“You know,” I said, my anger under complete control. “I was in the front when we were fired upon.”

“More will be killed,” he said finally. “What did you think it would be, a picnic?”

I repeated the cliché: “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”

“You may make the omelet but you won’t eat it,” he said patronizingly. He had regained his composure.

“Who will?”

“We will,” he said, the grin plastered on his face again. “Not only because we have the money. More important, with money, we have been able to develop the brains. And if we can’t have brains, we buy them.”

“Like you are trying to buy me now?”

He laughed in spite of himself. “Pepito, you are very sharp,” he said brightly. “Of course! This is why I brought you here. To convince you. Living in that dump, working for that priest — that is not your future, hijo. Your future is much brighter. The gates of Pobres Park are open to everyone, you know that. You are welcome — as long as you abide by the rules. Let the scum fight for the crumbs. Ours is the cake. And we are not going to give this cake away. No, hijo. We cannot lose. Can you not see? If anarchy comes, do you know what will happen? We are in the movement, too, as you already know. We are promoting it, with friends like you. As for the genuine rebels, like Ka Lucio, we will see to it that they are either discredited or destroyed. We have no room for them. And if the government — meaning the president — decides to put an end to the anarchy and declare a dictatorship, excellent!”

“I do not follow,” I said, although everything was falling neatly into place; Juan Puneta was not really telling me anything new.

“Have you forgotten that we have money? We send our children to the best schools — Paris, London, Boston — well, some of them may have flirted with communism, with socialism, that is the privilege of youth. But they are ours, they know where their interests lie. They are not going to be traitors to their class. They are everywhere — in business, in government, in politics. They know what is happening. They know what is going to happen. With brains, you are always one step ahead.”

“I still do not understand,” I said, urging him on.

He was now the epitome of eloquence: “We—” he said with a flourish of hands, “we are going to be here for a long time. As a matter of fact, for always. We know how to change, and that is why we will always be on top. But the change comes from us, dictated by us. And as for the president, his interests are with us; he is one of us! Not with the masses — ha, the masses! That’s wonderful for speeches. They could not care less for the class struggle, for ideology. Do you know, Pepito, that all they want is a roof over their heads? And three bowls of rice a day? You yourself said that. And most of all, they want a sense of order, of security. It is really that simple. Their perception of the world, of society, is dictated by their needs, and we will give them what they want, slowly, slowly. Never the pie. Just the crumbs. It has to be that way. In trade, our labor must be cheap so that we can compete. Yes, we will talk about social justice, land reform, but we will not give these in cash or in kind. We have to keep them nailed to the plow, to the machine — and we will do it deliberately because cheap labor is one of our real assets. And we will not give it up. The president— Any leader will understand it, approve of it. The president is with us. He likes to be surrounded by people who understand the impulses of power. Only the powerful know what these are. And the powerful are the rich. We will flock around him — pamper him, kowtow to him, and then suffocate him! And he won’t even realize it, for this is what dictators have always been — partial to panderers. How dictators love them! Study your history books, Pepito. Have they really abolished the elite in Moscow? In Peking? They will always be with us, like death and taxes.”

“Like death,” I said quietly. “But why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I want you to know. So that you will work for us.”

“And what will I get?”

“Anything you need. The future is not with the poor, you know that. It is always with the rich.”

“How did you get that way?”

“By exploiting the poor. I love exploiting the poor.” He laughed quickly, but his laughter sounded hollow.

“It was more than that.” I remembered his ancestry. “You are very proud of your ancestry. But your grandfather sold out the revolution and went over to the Spaniards. Then it was the Americans, and the Japanese. Now you will subvert the revolution again and claim it as yours.”

“That is the way it has always been,” he grinned. “The elite always wins in the end, Pepito. How can you ever get rid of it? How can you ever run the country without the elite? And the masses don’t make revolution, you know that, too.”

“Have you read Antonio Samson’s book?”

He nodded. “A lot of meaningless phrases strung together with hypocrisy. He married into the Villa family, you know that.”

“He committed suicide,” I said.

“That’s a joke,” he laughed again. “Not after marrying into the Villas. Why should he kill himself?”

“Some people are convinced he committed suicide,” I insisted.

“Suicide, accident, does it matter? The important thing is that he married into the Villa family. And Don Manuel never tires of talking about him, particularly now in his senility! As if Samson was some genius, merely because he had a Harvard Ph.D. The doors are wide open to those who are bright, Pepito. And one of the shortcuts is marriage — if you have what it takes. You can marry Betsy—” he shook a finger at me, insinuating that he knew.

“She has left; she is in New York,” I said.

“You can follow her, hijo,” he said. “You can easily go there. Scholarships — there are so many of them floating around. Or I can send you — if you would consider the price.”

“What do I have to do?” I was curious.

He clapped with enthusiasm, “Now you are really talking! First, hijo, there’s me, my personal needs — that’s not difficult for you. I am easy to please. Then help us, Pepito. We will control the Brotherhood. We’ll control Malacañang, the army, surround power centers with our people, who are more pliable, more understanding of our aspirations.”

The nationalist bourgeoisie — Professor Hortenso had warned us against them.

“Knowing all these now”—his chest thrust out, his eyes gleamed, and his thick lips pursed in satisfaction—“I hope you will not bargain too hard. After all, it is only money. It can easily be settled.”

“Why are you so sure about my price?”

He drew away, appraised me as if I were a hunk of meat, then said in that half-mocking, half-serious tone he always affected when he wanted to stress a point, “I still cannot understand how you did it … well, she is very pretty, but Nick said you knew there were a dozen of us behind that mirror.”

“Money,” I said, not bothering to explain or deny my performance with Kuya Nick’s mistress. “That is what made me do it.”

He came to me, gripped my shoulder. “I meant no offense, Pepito. This is what I like about you. You know what you want. Some time soon you should consider having a male partner like me. It could be more interesting. And pleasurable. I pay much, much more. I am glad it is so easy to talk with you. Still, I couldn’t understand how you could do it.”

“Or how any other toro can do it?”

“Yes!”

I wanted to tell him of the great difference between body and spirit, that this separateness was always clear to those who knew. Puneta may have traveled widely, traversed diverse regions of the mind and wallowed in the pleasures of the body, but he had never made that crossing that would deem him more than an effete bundle of nerves; he would never understand why prostitutes would heave and moan and have their bodies possessed but would never allow their mouths to be kissed. He would never understand, and I would not now explain it to him.

“It is all a matter of will,” I said.

“Will, determination, single-mindedness. You have it, Pepito. This is the single most important factor in any enterprise, whether it is playing toro or modernizing a country. Only those with will can achieve. And we will modernize this country,” he exalted, “the way only we can do it. Go back to your Asian history. It was not the peasants who changed Japan; it was the elite — the shoguns, the samurai. And that is what we are.”

So then, this is how it will be; they talk about modernization, about increases in the gross national product, and they want the bright young minds — honed in the best universities in America — to work and raise this country and these people from the garbage dump of history up to the dizzying heights of air-conditioned bedrooms, flush toilets, and paved streets. They can do this and they will do it because that is the iron compulsion of the times, and the rationale behind it is nationalism. They will use Rizal and all the bones of the illustrious dead to be the foundation of their dreams, and they will be self-righteous and self-satisfied, for they are convinced theirs is the true light, that they are acting on behalf of the people, and they know what is best for the clod, the toilers — the dumb carabaos that plow the fields. But who will talk about the dignity of men, about the living wage, the education of children, the care of the sick? Manila’s hospitals are abattoirs; the districts of the poor are nightmare swamplands. The highest officials go abroad on shopping sprees with the people’s money; why should their subalterns do less when the most powerful have secret bank accounts and the other accoutrements of luxury for which they have robbed the people? And we are asked to support them, to believe them — they who have drained us of our blood, who have tortured us and raped us. More than these, we are supposed to love our bondage because it is the mark of our allegiance to nation and, therefore, to God. If in the past we had done it, it was because we did not know; we had been bound to them by a mistaken sense of loyalty, by gratitude, because we felt then that we would not survive without their kindness, their patronage. But it is different now. Our eyes have been opened. Certainly not by them, but by the fact that we cannot be deceived forever. Now we will fling back to them the very sop with which they have tried to drown our protests. Nationalism means us, for we are the nation and the vengeance we seek will never be sated till we have gotten measure for measure all that was stolen from us. I live in Tondo, I came from Cabugawan. I want not just the irrevocable end to my poverty but justice as well.

I raised the magnum; the despair commingled with surprise on Juan Puneta’s face was appalling, but it did not deter me. I fired and the impact was so strong, it seemed as if he was lifted off his feet then flung down. My earmuffs were not on. The explosion crashed in my ears, and for some time I could not hear.

He had died instantly and the red on his shirtfront now spread. I took my handkerchief, wiped my gun carefully and placed it in his right hand. His hand would have powder marks, too, I’ve read about that. I took his gun and put it in my pocket. I had difficulty moving him and removing his wallet. It had a thousand pesos, mostly in fifties. I took five hundred.

I opened the cabinets — all were without locks — and took another magnum. Boxes of the ammo were in the same cabinet as the guns; eight were enough. I went up to the ground floor and was briefly apprehensive, for the door of the shooting range was locked. I pushed and it opened.

In the master bedroom most of the rosewood cabinets were open — a hundred suits, the finery of Pobres Park, but there was really nothing of value there. I remembered his keychain. I returned to the range and removed it from his pocket. I was careful not to leave fingerprints on the cabinets as I opened them. In one was his wife’s jewels lined up neatly in ivory-inlaid boxes. I did not know much about jewelry, but I did get a couple of diamond rings, a brooch — nothing more; I did not want them missed. On his writing table was a steel cash box. It contained stacks of dollar and peso bills, all in denominations of fifty and one hundred. I took half of its contents.

I returned to the range, put the keys in his pocket. Back in the kitchen, I washed the cups and saucers, placed them in the wall cabinet. The kitchen was as spotless as when I got there. When I walked out of the house, there was no one in the quiet mango-lined street. All the neighboring houses had high walls and all their massive iron gates were closed.

The paper bag I was carrying was heavy. On top of the guns and the ammo was the day’s papers. I walked down the street leisurely. At the gate of the Park I had a moment of fright; the private guards were examining a taxicab and opening its trunk.

But they did not bother with me — just another houseboy going to market.

* Misa de Gallo: Midnight mass held between December 16 and Christmas Eve.

Filipinos, Wake Up!

I boarded the bus for Quiapo at EDSA. I must see Professor Hortenso, tell him what I had done, then leave Manila for wherever he would send me. I brought to mind our talks, the small confidences he had shared with me, and it was then that I realized with some sadness that he did not really tell me much. Perhaps because I was not trusted; perhaps because my actions were determined by animal needs and not by some unswerving ideal. This should have been clear to me when I was being tortured — and it was just as well, for I would have told my torturers everything. I had skills, I had helped, but the compulsions of my stomach and my gonads, and not the dictates of a committed mind, determined my waking hours. I was an instrument to be manipulated, and though I had the right credentials, I was naive, I was an “adventurist,” not “intellectual” enough to understand and accept the ideological basis for revolution.

It all came to me, the discussions with Ka Lucio about the morality of violence. I was surprised that there was not a single qualm in me when it was my turn to do the ultimate. I had acted in passion, and now that my mind was calmer, I realized that what I had done really was nothing more than an extension of my desire to live, and that I had simply given back the violence that was inflicted on me, not so much by Puneta himself but by the instruments he created and supported. I may have acted in anger and vengeance, but also in righteousness. It is we or they, Ka Lucio had said. It was I or him, and my knowledge and acceptance of this made everything clear. The gods who manipulated the Brotherhood may mistrust me, may not include me in their councils — my friends and mentors like Professor Hortenso — but now I trusted myself, my instincts. And this, after all, was what really mattered.

But more than this new self-confidence was this feeling I could not quite describe because it was something that had never suffused me before. When I fashioned my first toy gun out of wood, I never thought I would aim and fire a real one at a man and do it without rancor or regret. I should be filled with remorse, but I was not. Instead, this overwhelming, edifying sense of freedom lifted me from the mundane. It had seemed that all my life I was imprisoned and could not break away until I had snuffed my enemy’s life. Now I was being lifted to the skies. A joy that had always eluded me filled me to overflowing, bursting in my heart, gushing in my arteries, drenching me with light. I could soar and touch the clouds!

I did not have time to count the money, the thousands I would bring to my brothers. It was rightfully ours. But I was frightened when I got to Dapitan. On the door of the Hortenso apartment was a handwritten sign: FOR RENT. I knocked on the next door. Oh yes, they moved only the other day, but they did not leave a forwarding address. The other occupants had the same reply. I tried to recall what he had told me, that he would get in touch with me at the kumbento, but there was no message for me in Tondo. Tia Nena asked if I was hungry, for it was past one, but I was not. There would be no one in Puneta’s house till five and they would not miss him till late evening, when they would start looking. I transferred the guns and the money to my tattered canvas bag; it did not look as if it could contain jewelry and all that cash.

Then I went to see Father Jess. Though it was almost Christmas, it was unusually warm. He was in his underwear and his paunch, big as a drum, drooped on his lap. He looked up from his typewriter, sweat glistening on his brow. His face, as with all those who are in deep thought when interrupted, was blank.

“Yes, Pepe,” he said finally. “It must be very important for you to interrupt me like this.”

“I want to confess, Father,” I said.

“You know I am not dogmatic about it.”

“I killed a man,” I said.

Father Jess drew back and stood his full height, all six feet of him, all fat and paunch and greasy face and yellow buckteeth. The eyes that were always filled with laughter suddenly grew reptilian cold.

“You are not making up another story,” he asked, half-expecting perhaps that what I told him was not true.

“I am speaking the truth,” I said, unwavering before the eyes that were probing into me. “I killed a man. I drew the gun and pointed it, straight at his chest, then fired. He looked very surprised as he fell in front of me — you know, like a drunk. There was not much blood. I thought it would splatter all over the place.”

“He is dead then?”

“As dead as anyone in the cemetery.”

“Do I know him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“God, do not make it difficult. Do not tell me things like this.”

“It was difficult for me, too,” I said. “But now that it is over, I knew it had to be done. From the very beginning, although I was not so sure then.”

“And who—”

I did not let him finish. “Who else but Juan Puneta?”

Father Jess sank on his seat shaking his head. “No, Pepe; this is not so. This cannot be. I don’t believe it!”

“It will be in the newspapers in the morning. You can go to his house right now.”

Father Jess shook his head again. The fact had settled fully. “Did anyone see you?”

“I did it in the firing range under his house. All the maids were out. No one was there except us.”

“Not even his wife and children?”

“I think he purposely sent them away. He wanted me alone with him.”

“But why?”

“Father! Did you not know? He was syoki. He was propositioning me, I could perhaps earn a lot, letting those syokis and dressmakers — But I vomit just thinking about it.”

“That was no reason, Pepe. The world is full of perverts and they ought to be pitied, not condemned. They do not mean harm. They need to be helped. Not stigmatized. Not killed.”

“Shit, Father.”

“Pepe, I have tried my best to show you the way, to make you forgive … and love.”

“And that is why I killed him. I love my friends, even this godforsaken place, and I do not want Puneta misleading us, cheating us, corrupting us!”

“It is not your right to make the final judgment, to condemn him because he is a homosexual.”

I faced Father Jess squarely. “It was not a homosexual I killed. I am not opposed to syokis. He was a cheat, an exploiter. Yes, Father, I have finally done it. I can now look my enemy in the eye, point the gun at him. I couldn’t do this before. I was enjoying his bribery.”

“This is the end, Pepe.”

“No, Father. The beginning. The beginning! I do not feel guilty at all. A great weight has been lifted from me. It is as if I could fly … and I am happy. Can you understand? Happy! I have done it. It was a great test. And I passed. I never felt like this before.”

“You will be killing more, and there will be no stopping.”

“Father, it is not the killing that makes me light here,” I pounded my chest. I could not describe it, this lifting of the spirit, the final liberation, the freedom that we had talked about and sought. “If I should kill, I will without compunction. I am free, Father Jess. Free — as you will never imagine. They can chain me and starve me and beat me. But they cannot harm me anymore. God, how wonderful it feels!”

Then I told him what I heard on the telephone. Puneta may not have pulled the trigger, but it was his money, his orders that did it, and now Toto and Ka Lucio were dead.

“I did it for myself,” I said.

“No man has any right to take another man’s life. This is basic, this I have always believed.”

“Am I guilty then?” I asked.

“Do not let me be the judge. I have, myself, often wanted to kill, to strangle with my hands, but I never had enough courage or hate to do that. I have asked my God, who am I to have such thoughts.”

“I do not feel guilty at all.”

“Why do you confess then?”

“Not to ask for absolution, but to let you know because you are someone I can confide in and for you to confirm, if you can, that I did no wrong.”

“I cannot do that, Pepe. I am mortal, I commit sins, I am filled with remorse. I cannot tell you you are right. What will you do now?”

“In the back of my mind, Father,” I told him, “I knew that someday I would do something that would make me really happy. I did not know it would be this. I thought it would be something”—I had difficulty looking for the words—“something sensual. Something that would satisfy my eyes, my stomach …”

Father Jess nodded. “We really never know what we are capable of,” he said. “That is the riddle of man, his virtue as well as his damnation.”

For some time now, I had wanted to put it to him in its rawest terms, that as a priest, leader of the flock, and Christian, he must infuse his faith with life, see to it that truth is justice not in the abstract but in stone-hard reality that all can see and feel. The only way to achieve this was with the same commitment to violence with which Christ gave Himself to man. “Can you come with me?”

He bowed and was silent; when he spoke again, his words were long in coming, as if they had to be unraveled one by one from the knots into which they had all been tangled. “I asked myself this question long ago, Pepe. And I could explain my staying here by saying I am needed here, or that I am too fat to be running around with boys in the mountains, where I would be an easy target, just like an elephant is an easy target in the densest jungle. I have also told myself, each to his own vocation, that all of us have some contribution to make toward this … this revolution that you now seek as one would the Holy Grail. But all these are rationalizations. Yes, the priest who believes in social justice must pursue that belief to its logical action — and here, and now, it is only with violence that it can be brought about. And God, I believe this, and I should go with you. But—” his voice faltered and he turned away, mumbling in his breath, “I am not made of steel. I am human.” Then abruptly, “But you must not waste your life. The young are impulsive, they do not think things out carefully and their efforts are often rendered useless.”

“It is better than procrastinating, Father,” I said.

A scowl spread over his face. “It is not just procrastination, Pepe, or rationalization, or cowardice — remember that. These are true if you are comfortable and you don’t want to leave your comforts anymore. It is one of the most corrupting of all feelings. We get used to it.”

“I’d like to be comfortable myself,” I said.

“If I hold back,” Father Jess continued, “it is also because I can see the risks. But more than this, I want to be sure that your blood, my blood, anyone else’s blood, is not poured in the desert, and this is often done because there was not enough planning, enough studying of what is to be done, the need for organization that will bring revolution to its successful conclusion. And this is most important: that its gains are made permanent, that revolution need not degenerate into something vicious that we will all abhor. Violence breeds more violence, but if there is enough planning and commitment to ends that are not violent—”

“You are seeking the impossible, Father,” I said. “You are segurista,^* and at times like this, there is nothing sure except our readiness to risk everything.”

“It need not be all that risky, if you planned more,” Father Jess said. “And the first thing really is organization, a network that reaches everywhere, the farthest village, the highest mountain.”

“That is what we are already doing, Father,” I said.

“Build some more,” he said. “Life is so precious, and you lose it only once.”

I went down to the room where I had lived for two years, the words of Father Jess like our own posters etched in my mind. Now, in this shabby room, the memory of Toto gripped me; his voice seemed to echo within these musty walls and I could imagine him as he moved about, the glow of his character, the exuberance of his silences. These came back as if to prod me on, confirming how right I had been, his redemption.

Yet I have never felt so alone as I do now, and though I could lay claim to the fealty of friends, everyone now seemed distant and far away. I had tried to seek in them — Roger, my classmates, and my comrades in the Brotherhood — those ties that would bind us so that I did not have to think or rationalize what I had done or will do. As one of them, I could withstand the punishment that circumstance would mete out. Where had I slept in the past? Where had I slaked my thirst? Will I always be alone?

I had tried to write down my innermost thoughts, but what I wrote were platitudes. I did this because it was what was expected of me, because what I had to say was like the rosary, and by invoking the heavenly phrases, I had hoped to numb my conscience.

Did I do this because I did not know? Indeed, what could I grow but my hair? Some of us could not even grow beards except a wispy broom like Uncle Ho’s, nothing bushy like Fidel’s.

I need not be told that it is not easy to go beyond my station no matter how capable I am; in the end, although the rules are not written down, I cannot join them up there unless I am prepared to accept the very same ends to which they have aspired, to bear the same brand or tattoo that marks them off from the common herd. The tayo-tayo^† mentality in the back alleys and the grim confines of Muntinlupa is no different from what prevails in Pobres Park.

It should not be difficult to erode the constructions of sand whereon the mighty are perched. And who am I to attempt this? I would, in all likelihood, be lost or swallowed up, a pebble in a bog, with not even a splash or a ripple. But why should I make this splash? This ripple? Each is a step forward, in the right direction, said Ka Lucio; but why was it not three steps or ten? Those who made them, those behind me, those with me, they failed, I think, because they wanted to be more than men, invulnerable, incapable of venial sin. They failed because, as Ka Lucio said, they were textbook robots who fancied themselves as the sole bringers of light, the infallible harbingers of grace, unswerving and self-righteous. As Kuya Nick said, they are not “in the compass.” They lost direction because they were bloated with self-importance. If they only knew how to enjoy themselves, if they only knew how it is to love and, therefore, to forgive! I will not be like them, and even if I should die, which I surely will, even in the ennui, in the tawdry futility of it all, I will live as I have always lived, amassing memories.

Leaving this Barrio, then, is not leaving at all; it is an act of being welded deeper, stronger, with all those nameless people of my boyhood, these faceless people here who will live and die without knowing what it is to be alive.

And how about Bing-Bong, Chicken, Tarzan, White Sidewall, and all those demons of the other world that I had glimpsed? Could they be recycled from the junkyard like Roger? It had often come to me like a bad recurrent dream, and it always brought a quiet chill to my heart — my torture, how my flesh and mind were ripped apart. Was there any design to it other than to jar me, to wake me up? They were all creatures of circumstance, but this circumstance can now be changed. It should be changed! And all that pain — it was part of living after all, and it made me know the limits of experience, and the limits are yet to be enlarged.

I lay in my cot and waited for the dark; the shuffle of mah-jongg chips, Silent Night on someone’s radio disturbed the quiet. I thought of waiting for Lily, to say good-bye to her, but she’d be back close to midnight and would be very tired; she would most probably not understand and would rather hurry to her dreamless sleep. Lily, only twenty but hardened by the Barrio and fallen down the abyss. No, I will not bother her, I will wish her sweet dreams so that in the morning she will wake up fresh and ready again to tackle the hordes at the Colonial. I hoped to God that she would make enough money in five years so that she could quit.

I thought of Betsy, my Betsy, away from all the niggling frustrations that had tormented us. I had lain awake nights after she had gone, remembering those tenuous moments we had shared. At the airport I had tried to keep away, but she had scanned the crowd and seen me behind one of the pillars. She had run to me, away from her friends, and in a final and futile gesture she kissed me, suppressing a sob as she did. “Pepe, thank you for coming!” Then she went back to her parents, her friends, as if nothing had happened, and I fled from them onto the viewing roof, lost in the crowd, and watched her trim figure in yellow go up the ramp, her eyes searching the waving crowds, searching…

Her letters had started to come. She wrote every day, but for how long? She wrote of her loneliness, of the ghastly and impersonal city to which she had been exiled, the nondescript course she was taking and how, after the New Year, she would return and go straight to the Barrio, not to the Park. But she would not find me and she would not know where to look.

It had become dark. Around me were familiar things — my small cabinet, the cracked cement floor that was now dry but during the rainy season was wet from the water that seeped in and was ankle-deep, and we had to walk around in rubber boots. How many times had I lain on this wooden cot, my pillow smelling of my sweat, the palm leaf mat scratching against my back where it had frayed, and listened to the sounds of the Barrio, the blare of a jukebox across the yard, the quarrel of couples, the tinkling of an ice cream cart.

The darkness had started to hide everything, the misshapen dwellings of rusting tin, driftwood, and packing crates, the alleys rank with decay. Will there ever be a good roof over my head? I turned to the strip of sky above my window now flecked with stars — how luminous, how eternal the heavens were.

On the shelf beside my bed were my old books from Father Jess, a dozen from Betsy, and at the foot of my bed, propped up by hollow blocks so that the water would not touch them, my clothes. I can count them — five undershirts, five jockey shorts, two denim pants, one khaki and olive green for ROTC, one black double knit, a barong, five shirts, the white in need of stitching where the collar had frayed. They would all fit into the old canvas bag.

I switched on the light and got a sheet of paper from my drawer; the Sheaffer pen I was going to use was Betsy’s birthday gift. What can I tell her now? It was after she had gone that it came, a longing for her so intense that the ache was almost physical. Many times in a crowd, although I knew she was far away, a turn of a head, the color of green, a dash of scarf, and all would come back — the coffee shop, that night on the hill overlooking Manila, and here in Tondo. Dear Betsy, I would like to tell you now how much I need you. I have purposely held off writing this to you, and in doing so, I had turned over and over in my mind, all these past few days, why I am here and you are there — so far and so beyond my reach …

It had always been that way, and I have always known it, better perhaps than you ever will. My perception of the world is different from yours; it is not just a matter of age, or of different geographies. It is just that you are up there and I am down here.

I do not want to say good-bye again, or to repeat what I have said, that in these two years you have become a part of my life, and I feel for you what I feel for myself, these tissues, this skin. I have grown so familiar with you, the contour of your body, the smell of your breath, the soft, warm crevices of your mouth and the whole wonder of you. I know now how difficult it is to be alone, to be here in this senseless confine not only of my own being but of this wretched city, and to know that you are not here where I can glory not just in your nearness but in the thought that you did love me.

And at night I lie awake, and I speak your name as if it were some incantation that would dispel this loneliness, for now I am really alone. I whisper to these cold, rusting walls; to the damp, cement floor; to the emptiness around me, Betsy, Betsy … but I can only hear the echo within me and so I wonder how you are, if you are happy as I hope you will be, and I pray that you be not tormented as I am, that your nights are slept and your days are bright, and if you remember, may they be those times that we shared, the coffee shop, the tawdry rooms and the sheet that was stained with red, the books that had to be read, and Tondo where I had tasted your sweat; yes, so many of these now crowd my mind, and they are all crystal clear, pictures, events, places — all of them important only because we knew them, lived them, and they have become us.

I did not want to write this letter, but it is one way by which I can escape this bleakness that now encompasses me. Now, too, I know how it is to be what I am and to remember what you are, life-giver, my joy and my sorrow.

You will forget, not because you are young, but because you are far away, and having forgotten, it will all be over and you may, on some occasion, remember, perhaps, because this is the way things are and we cannot change them. I don’t know if I will forget; one can never be sure, but I know that you are now my wife, not because God or a priest has sanctified our union but because this is how I regard you. Though I may sleep with other women, I know there will always be you, separate from all the rest, not just because I feel that you have given me yourself, or your faith and trust, all of which I do not deserve, but because I have given myself to you as I will never give myself to anyone.

I will be leaving Tondo now and I wish I knew my final destination, but I do not. The compulsions that we have talked about will take me to regions I will not recognize, but wherever they may be, there will be a light to guide me, a talisman that will make me endure and you are all of these.

But above all, you are the proof I will always hold precious and true. Thank you, dear Betsy, for being with us in thought and deed. There are a few like you, comfortable and secure, who have chosen to be with us; I will doubt them in a way I once doubted you and they must bear the burden of proving themselves as you have done. Only time will tell and time, alas, is fickle in a way I will never be, now that I know who I am, now that I know what to do.

So let me go away loving you, and losing you, for, in the end, we will lose all those we love.

I merely signed, JS.

I folded the letter, Father Jess would have to mail it for me; he would also be my only link with Betsy and with all the others whose lives I have touched and who would, perhaps, surrender themselves lightheartedly to the end that awaits us.

I unzipped the canvas bag and on top of the guns and the money I placed my clothes, my pen knife, and a notebook. I would have many thoughts to jot down and they will not have anything to do with what I am and what I will be; the past is stored here in my mind, inviolate, days when I was young, when I marveled at how the leaves of the acacia trees close at dusk, how it would have been if there was a father to explain to me why this was so, what was it that closed the leaves of the bain-bain if I as much as breathed into them? Where could all this wisdom be? I saw Man’s Fate, which was Betsy’s gift, then Father’s The Ilustrados; she had told me to read the last chapter and reluctantly, I sat back, remembering what Professor Hortenso had also said.

“Your father committed suicide,” Betsy had told me. “Mama is convinced that what Carmen Villa said is true. That is why Carmen Villa died, too — slowly, insanely.”

The Filipino elite is flawed because the individuals who comprise it, even though they come from diverse backgrounds, do not really see themselves as leaders of a nation. They see themselves as leaders of factions, of families, of cozy coteries. Their rhetoric will deny, even attack, this assumption — but their deeds will bear their parochial, factional, and, therefore, antinationalistic loyalties.

“—it is a great book and only a great mind is capable of writing it …”

The Filipino elite in its present composition is doomed not because of the inexorable march of history, not because the dialectic of change has condemned it. It is doomed because dinosaurs were doomed. But even the last dinosaur, in its death throes, trampled the grass.

“Why do you hate him? You were young, Pepe; you didn’t know. Please give him a chance.”

The corruption of the ilustrado class was accomplished not by bribery from the Spaniards, nor by the high offices that the Americans or the Japanese gave them. Their corruption started when they started believing — with great righteousness and pride — that they were equal to their rulers. By aspiring for equality they became imbued, therefore, with the same values as their masters, values that perpetuated the very injustices they sought to avenge.

The ilustrados—the intellectuals — should have no role in the revolution, in any revolution. They equivocate, they argue, they procrastinate. Writers and academics who think they have a role in revolution are flattering themselves; what they really want to do is to be part of it, to lead it, without having to raise the sword. Only those with the sword can participate in revolution, for revolution means destruction, not contemplation.

“Even if he did not see your mother as you said, why did she love him to the end? Why did she ask you to honor and respect him? She would have been the first to hate him — because he married another.…”

Revolution can only succeed when men who believe in it can translate their beliefs into a conspiracy — all-embracing in its call for adherents. But to admit into the leadership of the revolution the old elite, no matter how well-intentioned they may be, would be to condemn the revolution to suspicion and even betrayal. A class war is precisely that — a class war. The revolution failed because it did not adhere to this basic requirement; a class is weakened not by the identified enemy but by the unidentified subverter who dilutes and weakens its leadership.

“He had integrity, Pepe. He saw how rotten the system and the people he had joined were; he had to cleanse himself. Carmen Villa was right: his suicide was an act of courage.”

Courage, integrity — what frightening words! How many are there who can really carry them without being crushed? They had never really meant much to me, but now I understood not only what they meant but also the horrendous burden they were.

But how does one measure their weight upon the poor? Who can point with an unerring finger to those among us who have borne them?

Instinctively, I remembered Lucy and Lily, and much as I loathed thinking of what they had to go through to live, I knew deep within me that they had acted with courage and fortitude, and I can only curse myself for my incapacity to understand them.

I had been wrapped up in a fine gauze of a dream through which I could neither see nor break away. I had deluded myself without being quite aware, and, thank God, there had been an awakening.

My father’s book now seemed clear to me. Reading him now, knowing the people he had to live with, I could imagine how he felt, the dilemmas he had to wrestle with so that the comforts that he knew would not blind him and bind him when, all along, memory kept shunting him back to the Antipolo that we both knew and beyond, Cabugawan, which was the beginning.

Yet it had never really occurred to me, in spite of Betsy’s promise and Puneta’s clever urgings, to join them no matter how I longed for the ease, the comfort of which their world had a surfeit. No matter how sincere Betsy was, I knew now that I would lose her in spite of herself, and only time would tell how soon. I could easily be lulled into thinking that she would be constant, and she would be, but I belonged to Cabugawan, not to Pobres Park, and as long as I kept that in mind, what happened to Father would never happen to me. But I did not deride him now; I had learned from him. The end that he chose for himself was not an act of pride or of despair. It was courage, which I must surpass if the son is to be better than the father, if the child is to become a man.

I could look now beyond his shoulder, to his father, my grandfather, whom I had never seen though I knew what he had done, what he and the rest whom they called Colorums had wrought in one evening of anger. Now they crowded my thoughts, not wraiths that are formless but living men who are strong, whose voices urge me on. And I believe them because I know where they came from.

And beyond them that great-grandfather, about whom Mother had spoken, who had led his clan from the Ilocos to Rosales. Who else had their blood in me? What had they dreamt of? Pepe Samson then is just a name; I had come from afar and was simply born in a corner of the world called Cabugawan. I was someone, yet no one, for I was no longer living for myself, for this bundle of nerves and flesh; I was part of those who had perished and those who were yet to come. I belonged no longer to this casement of skin, I was part of the earth, the water, the air.

The door opened and in the light Tia Nena, her eyes blinking. “So you are leaving,” she said quietly.

“I will miss you, Tia,” I said.

She came in and sat on the stool before my small reading table. There was something sprightly about her tonight.

“And you were going to leave without saying good-bye.”

“I think it is better that way,” I said.

After some silence, “Pepe, do not ask how I found out, but I know what is in your mind. I will soon be leaving, too, to go back to Rosales now that I can look at everything there without fear.”

I turned to her, startled at what she had said.

She smiled. “Yes, I know how you feel and you may even tell yourself I am, indeed, a crazy old woman. I had nothing, too, and nothing to look forward to. Padre Jesus does not really need me to cook and do his laundry. But my home is there — the village, the hills.”

“No, Tia, do not waste your life. Stay here where at least you can have food when you are hungry. And when you get sick, there will be at least some neighbors who can take you to the hospital.”

“Where I will die nonetheless because I am poor.”

I did not speak.

“Come to me if you need help,” she said. “If you get sick, I will try and nurse you back to health. And if you get hungry, I will beg to feed you.”

“And when I die?”

“Then,” Tia Nena said with determination, “I will bury you and pray by your grave and put flowers there.”

“I am not a patriot, Tia Nena. Please don’t make it look as if I am trying to be one.”

“You will never get rich,” she said.

I was ready. “First, I am going back to Cabugawan, Tia Nena,” I said. “That is where I will start.”

“The village, that is where Victor started,” she said. Her eyes were shining. “My sons, that is where they started, too. Oh, you don’t know them. You never knew them. But Rosales is any town, and your village any village. We start where we know best.”

I went upstairs to Father Jess. Tia Nena followed me.

“I have a letter for Betsy, Father,” I said. “And if Professor Hortenso comes and looks for me, please ask him to leave his address with you. I will be going back to Cabugawan. And Betsy, if she returns, tell her …” I could not shape the words. “When it is over, and if I live through it, I will look for her.”

Father Jess said, “I will pray for you.”

He looked at Tia Nena. “There is no one now in Rosales whom you know. Your place is here.”

Tia Nena merely smiled at him.

Father Jess tried again: “You must consider what will happen. You cannot run anymore.”

“But I am not running, Padre,” she said quickly.

Father Jess was impatient; he dismissed her remark with a wave of his hand. “I know what you are going to say, that you never ran away and you are not running away now. But where you go …”

Tia Nena shook her head. “They will not harm me. They cannot harm me. All the hurt was done to me long ago. I am beyond hurting now.”

“I do not understand,” Father Jess said.

Tia Nena turned to me. “You build a church here,” she brought her closed fist to her breast.

“You are using my own words,” Father Jess said.

“But they are not yours alone,” Tia Nena flattered him. “The truth belongs to all who know it.”

“Speeches!” I said. Time to go, and the Tondo I will leave will be brightly lit with Christmas-star lanterns, colored lights strung before windows, boisterous drinking of cuatro cantos and San Miguel in the tiendas, children with harmonicas and plaintive voices caroling. But the distance that beckoned was dark. I was afraid.

So I leave behind those who see the sword but refuse to raise it. “Bless me, Father,” I said nonetheless. “I cannot leave without your blessing.”

“I am mortal, Pepe,” he said. As he raised his right hand, I dropped to my knees.

He helped me to my feet, and we went down. At the door, he wrapped an arm around my shoulder and hugged me briefly. Tia Nena kissed me on the cheek.

“Hoy, you have to cut your hair now,” he said as I left them at the kumbento door.

I was afraid but I felt very light. I knew I could go very far without tiring.

June 30, 1976

Rue d’Echaude, Paris

* Segurista: A crazy person.

† Tayo-tayo: We-we.