Ilustrado (20 page)

An infomercial touts the Ped-Egg. A hand rubs it against a foot while a voice says, “It’s perfect for boyfriend, for girlfriend, for mother, for father, for grandmum and grandpa, for sister, for brother . . .” I change the channel.

Camera pans slowly over rice terraces of a mountain province. The slopes reach like a glassy ziggurat into the cloudless sky. A zoom onto a cluster of huts gives a perspective of how extensive the constructions are. Fade to an old Ifugao man, leathery-dark and toothless, speaking from inside the hut. He prepares betel nut while speaking, taking ingredients from a carved box. Subtitles on the bottom of the screen: “An American once came and told me our terraces are the eighth wonder of the world. I only know this is how
we cultivate rice. Our way, for four thousand years . . .” I change the channel.

More news. Familiar image of Reverend Martin, preaching in a Burberry-plaid suit, cuts to an image of him being led from his mansion, surrounded by police, head down, facing away from the TV-camera lights and reporters with foamy microphones. He wears red silk pajamas. The voice-over says something in rapid Tagalog, which I hardly catch. Something about embezzlement in the El Ohim. The scroll across the bottom of the screen says the Phisix is down two points at closing today. I change the channel.

A concert at Araneta Coliseum of the country’s “top fifty Elvis impersonators.” All in identical bouffants, sunglasses, and sequined jumpsuits, though comically varying in size and weight. Two are drag queens, bedecked in fishnets and blue suede high-heel shoes. I change the channel.

Chinese news. Something about Shanghai, static shots of the skyline, workmen and material being hoisted up on cranes. I change the channel.

Chief Justice Santos is speaking at a symposium. “At the heart of law is morality,” he says. “But at the heart of morality is spirituality. Our faith in the Almighty is our best guide in interpreting the laws of man.” I change the channel.

F1 racing, Montoya leading at Monza, Schumacher a close second on the penultimate lap. I change the channel.

News report about another bombing, in Mindanao. General Santos City. A reporter stands in the glare of camera lights, a twisted chunk of metal behind her. The wreckage was once a bus, she says. Twelve were killed and another twenty-two have been brought to a hospital. Scene cuts to Manila, to Senator Nuredin Bansamoro (un-assuming, bespectacled, pomaded), surrounded by scowling subordinates. “This is the, ah, sixth bombing in a month. It is, ah, believed . . . ,” he says in very deliberate English, spitting out certain words with emphasis, “. . . believed to, uh, be, ah, perpetrated by, ah, the same cadre of dastardly scoundrels responsible for the, uh, Lotto and McDonald’s bombings last week. To be sure, there are extremist members of the, ah, Abu Sayyaf network operating in these, ah, bicinities. Though we cannot, ah, be sure if there is a connection
to the blasts in Metro Manila. I denounce reports that this is a precursor to, uh, a coup attempt. I have no comment on the rumors our, uh, dear president will institute martial law. If I had to comment, I would say it is a bery bad idea because, uh, I for one will stand against—” I change the channel.

A pretty mestiza is rubbing Block & White deodorant into her underarms after she showers. Scene cuts to her in a sleeveless blouse, raising her hand confidently at a university lecture. Her darker-skinned seatmate looks envious before crossing her arms to hide her own armpits. Next scene shows the dark-skinned classmate applying the deodorant, followed by before and after photos. Her armpits are clearly lightened after “just a few weeks of regular application.” I change the channel.

CNN: a program about last month’s antiwar protests in Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, and Halifax. In Queen’s Park, cops on horseback watch the crowd. A young man climbs on top of a
Globe and Mail
newspaper box and takes off his ski jacket to reveal a shirt that says
WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION
. A mounted officer waves him

down. The crowd shouts: “Get those animals off those horses!” The news ticker at the bottom of the screen says the Nasdaq and Dow Industrial are up. I change the channel.

A Portuguese nun discusses the beatitudes, quoting from the Gospel of St. John. Blessed are the meek, she says. I change the channel.

A female presenter on the Weather Channel says the coming storm is very strange. I change the channel.

Taiwanese news. Guangdong province, People’s Republic of China. A reporter wears a surgical mask in front of a hospital. Inside, two sallow patients lie in bed, gazing at the camera as if it could save them. I change the channel.

A live pan across a massive crowd in Rizal Park, every person holding a candle and raising a hand in the gesture of born-again praise. It looks like a lazy fascist salute, or people at a karaoke party singing “Stop in the Name of Love.” The commentator says a hundred thousand people have arrived in the two hours since Reverend Martin’s arrest. Some hold banners that say
PEACE
or
HOPE
. A reporter does a vox pop with a lady in the crowd. What brings you
here? “My love for Reverend Martin, of course. The Apostle of the People.” Why do you love him so? “He gives me strength to make it through each week. I used to be a drug addict and—” A man with big muscles leans over her shoulder to shout: “Me, I used to be gay!” Thunder crackles in the sky. Some in the crowd open umbrellas. Chanting is picked up in waves by the microphones and fills my hotel room. I change the channel.

A bulletin of tonight’s top stories: “The
Paul Watson
, the flag-ship of the North American environmental group the World Wardens, remained docked today in Manila despite protests from the Japanese embassy after last week’s collision with the whaling vessel
Nisshin Maru
. The Soldiers for Military Reform have been granted amnesty by President Estregan, though a spokesperson for the Lupas Landcorp’s Gloriolla Mall—which SMR troops overran last year and threatened to blow up if their demands for bureaucratic transparency weren’t met—says the corporation will pursue civil charges. The Chinese-Filipino community inaugurated a memorial in Binondo, a multitiered pagoda in remembrance of all the kidnap-for-ransom victims killed or never found. And in tonight’s edition of
In-Sight
, don’t miss a special report on life in Olongapo and Angeles City, eleven years after the eruption of Mount Pinatubo and the closing of Clark and Subic bases. No longer home to the two largest American military installations outside the continental U.S., are we better off without them? Find out in ‘From Dollars to Desert.’” I change the channel.

Lakbay-TV travel channel, opening credits:
Ancient Cultures of Mindanao
. A couple in intricate fabrics and headpieces. A sword brandished by the groom-prince, its blade voluptuously serrated. The bride, concealing her face with a fan, dances between two pairs of crossed bamboo poles clapped crisply together by attendants kneeling at her feet. The prince, his sword leaned on one shoulder and shield wielded firmly in the other hand, follows his bride, stepping in and out of the intermittent traps, the pace quickening rapidly. The bride steps back to watch her groom, his feet a blur among the wood cracking dangerously together. The hastening rhythm of the clack-clacking bamboo upon bamboo becomes hypnotic, like the rise to crescendo of Ravel’s
Bolero
. I change the channel.

BBC World News: Chief UN Weapons Inspector Hans Blix is being interviewed, shaking his head, frustrated at what is being said about Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. I change the channel.

One of those strange digital channels: in one corner of the screen, a music video from the Eraserheads, who sing about the unrequited love of a young girl from an exclusive college. On the rest of the screen are blinking text messages, updating in real time. Prettypinay89 writes: Hi 2 tropang Marikina! Gdluck 2 chem17 studnts of Phil Womns Schl with ur exams 2mrw. Gothgrrrrl3000 writes: Any1 here in2 deathmetal? Greyhounds rock! Eraserheads suck! And AnAk_Ng_KidlAt writes: Is any1 out there 2 hear me?

I turn the television off.

*

“One more thing,” Crispin said. “One last story.” He stared at the typewriter in front of him. “When you get to my age, the most insignificant memories take on significance. Unrationalized blame, casual kindnesses, random gestures—one day you just need to tell someone about them. There was this time, when I was a boy, when my father was consumed by jealousy.” I already had on my parka and backpack. I was cradling the bundle of outgoing mail in one arm. “Papa had always coveted the zoo my uncle had on his farm. So he decided to get an animal of his own, but for our house in Manila. He wanted to impress my mother, as well as coax her into spending more time with him there than in Bacolod.” I poured Crispin a glass of sherry; he looked up at me, nodded. “Of course, my father didn’t know anything about animals. He just liked having them. He must have thought he could hire people. As one does. He wanted a tiger and somehow he got one. I don’t know how, I was too young. I remember he kept it in a cage by the swimming pool, near the lanai where we had our meals when we ate outdoors. Actually, I think the tiger was there in Forbes Park because it was being transported to the farm at Swanee. I’m not sure anymore.”

Crispin sipped his sherry. He still hadn’t changed out of his ruined barong. Two black manuscript boxes were on the floor beside him. I leaned on the doorjamb and looked at my watch. Madison would be waiting at home with Valentine’s Day dinner. This morning,
to my dismay, she’d told me about finding a recipe for tofu Peking duck, and I still had to somehow find some gluten-free hoisin sauce. It had come to feel like our relationship counted on the successful fulfillment of such errands. I undid my scarf and unzipped my coat.

“Anyhow. At that time it was a big tiger to me. Huge. I think it must have been an adolescent, because the space by the swimming pool and the lanai wasn’t that big. Doesn’t everything seem bigger when looking back? Well, I can only imagine what the neighbors thought. What arrogance, a tiger in your garden. Ha! Truly. Thing is, the damn thing wouldn’t eat. It was traumatized by the flight or the truck or however it had been transported. It was a mess. I’m not sure whether it was a he or a she, or what became of it. It lay against whichever corner of the cage didn’t have sun. The cage was barely large enough for it to pace and turn.”

Crispin looked at the manuscript piled in its open box beside his typewriter. “One time my father had us eating breakfast outside, to appreciate the tiger. This part I remember well. We didn’t want to because it smelled bad. Sour and musky. But we had no choice. We sat there, pushing the food around our plates. Mama was reading her pocketbook mystery. My father was in a good mood and he picked up a few bacon strips and approached the animal. How macho, he wanted to feed it by hand. But the poor animal was afraid. It cowered in the corner. Papa got angry and started shouting at it. I’ll never forget what he said. He yelled, ‘What kind of king of the jungle are you?!’”

Crispin laughed heartily, then sighed. “Yes, it’s funny now. But at the time my brother and sister and I were terrified by the whole thing. The sadness was only felt later. You know how it is. My father threw the bacon at the tiger and hit it in the face. This puddle of piss formed under the animal, like some fluorescent toxic spill. I can see it like it was yesterday. The tiger cowering in its urine. Papa standing over it screaming. Mama still reading. We children averting our eyes, watching flies land on sliced mango on the fine china in front of us.”

Crispin rearranged his ashtray and meerschaum pipe, moved the decanter to the left, placed the matching glass beside it. He stared at
what his hands were doing, watching with absolute disinterest in their tasks. “I remember telling this story, years later, to my girlfriend, Gigi. It was odd, I hadn’t remembered it for twenty years until I recounted it to her. I wept after. The first time since childhood. Gigi told me our country needs a revolution. Of course she’d say that, she was French. It took even me a long time to understand that in our country revolution isn’t just parricide. It’s deicide. I finally think our redemption will have to be more noble than that. Anyway, I always wanted to use my memory of that tiger for a short story, or a scene in a novel. But some things are better kept in the past.” He pulled the paper from his typewriter, added it to the manuscript, and closed the box. He put the box on top of the other two. “After I wept, I remember how clear my eyes were.”

Crispin looked at me. I’ll never forget how he looked at me. As if I was a holy ghost. As if he realized what had to happen.

“So long,” he said, with his shy smile. “Keep it bouncing.”

I went home to Madison, the screaming of the living room smoke alarm, windows wide open, and an apartment as cold as the winter outside.

That was the last time I spoke with Crispin.

Cristo rears his new dappled charger at the crest of the hill, the sound of his men following like the drums of war. The horse whinnies nervously. Already Cristo is missing Paloma, swearing the Americans will pay for shooting his beloved mount.

There, at the bend of the river in the distance, is the infantry of Captain Peter Murray. His old nemesis. The campfires are intermittent like distant lighthouses as soldiers pass in front of them, pitching tents, fetching water, preparing dinner. Sergeant Lupas stops his own horse beside Cristo’s.

“They have no idea,” Cristo says.

“Yes, sir. But what of the women and children in the village?”

Cristo is silent.

“Capitan, the men are worried. They are wondering if it would be better to surrender.”

At this, Cristo lowers his voice to a rare sharpness. “You mean
you
are wondering. Not them.”

“I don’t need to prove my loyalty to you, Cristo.”

“Don’t you see, Ricardo?
This
is what those Amerikanos want. They think they can create a cordon, to cow the villagers into giving us up.”

“Our food is dwindling rapidly. Our supply lines are nonexistent. And the toll their cordon is taking . . . Cristo, the villagers . . . the women and children, they are starving.”