Ilustrado (33 page)

I had my doubts, of course. If we were following the path of the fathers of the Revolution, could our feet ever reach the proportions of their shoes stretched big by sixty years of history? Like them, we had been ambassadors to and students of the outside world. I arrived in Manila invigorated by my experiences. I had retraced the paseos of General Luna, listened to echoes of the Ramblas where Lopez Jaena and Rizal debated, and taken morning coffee in a sordid cafe beside which the ilustrados had printed
La Solidaridad
. I hoped I had osmosed the greatness of these men. I arrived, very unsure, for other than Max I was totally alone—the two of us made a pitiful vanguard party—surrounded by family and friends who were still blind.

Almost immediately, Max and I got ourselves into trouble with the authorities. What happened in jail was certainly not pleasant.

—from
Autoplagiarist
(page 1982), by Crispin Salvador

*

Miss Florentina has the world’s most perfectly arched eyebrows. “Look at this,” she says, pointing to today’s
Gazette
. “It’s only just the beginning. Can you believe these people?” On the front page, a photographer has used a fish-eye lens to capture Reverend Martin grinning beatifically during a prayer meeting in his cell in Camp Crame. Several police officers, military men, and politicians hold hands in a circle in the cramped quarters. Some are high-ranking Estregan cronies. Grasping Reverend Martin’s right hand is Senator Bansamoro, leader of the opposition. Taking his left hand is my grandfather. I recognize him immediately from his thick head of silver hair. The caption beneath reads: “Undying faith, fidelity, and commitment.”

Beside it is a smaller article with a photo of riot police arresting protesters in front of the munitions factory of the Philippines First Corporation. A gunboat sits in the Pasig River in a wonderful example of overkill. Amid the higgledy-piggledy of picketers and cops towers a man with long golden hair and sunburns like war paint on his cheeks and nose. He must be seven feet tall. He holds his hands behind his back so that the short cop can reach up and cuff him. The giant bends his knees courteously. His face is raised to the sky. He resembles Saint Sebastian in those old paintings, tied to a stake, seconds before the arrows pierce his chest. The caption says, “‘We’ll get you yet!’—terrorist environmental group makes threats as they are arrested.”

“The appearance of virtue is more important than virtue itself,” Miss Florentina says. I’m not sure to which picture she’s referring. “Oh yes, I have a letter for you,” she continues. “It’s here somewhere. I hope.” Miss Florentina laughs. It’s more of a cackle. On the daybed on which she reclines is a mess of things, like the spilled contents of a bag lady’s shopping cart. “Did you hear the latest gossip?” she says. She riffles through the objects around her. “Lakandula sent out the maids but refused to release the Changco child. The couple and their son are the only hostages left. I can’t stop following the story. It’s amazing. In an instant, Wigberto Lakandula could be national hero or national villain.” Miss Florentina’s voice is disarmingly vibrant. I am often surprised by people like her. Some internal energy continues in defiance of the decaying body. In the dim light, she seems almost oracular. The darkness gathers in the deep wrinkles of her skin, which sags on her as if she were a child wearing her father’s sweater. Her arms are mottled like an old banana. Her hair is long and white.

“
Voilà!
” she says, balancing an envelope on her belly. “But it’s the heart of darkness in here.” She claps her hands and a lamp lights up. Her eyebrows are tattooed on. “That’s better,” she says. Miss Florentina is an island in a sea of junk. Books, crumpled letters, TV remote. Lipstick-smeared tissues, contact sheets, transistor radio. Mismatched socks, cordless phone, pad of paper. A ratty wheelchair sits within her reach. For the first time, I notice a disgusting smell. Talcum powder, jasmine, and death. Miss Florentina fishes a letter opener from the jetsam of objects and slices open the envelope.

She squints at its contents through a photographer’s loupe tied with hairy twine around her neck. I wait.

“There. That’s a nice letter.” Miss Florentina claps again. The lamp turns off.

“Can you tell me what it says?”

“It says you want to find Dulcinea. Because you think she has something for you. Because you’re searching. Aren’t we all? Take, for example, that poor fellow, Mr. Lakandula, searching for justice rarely given. One of the maids he released had a message pinned to her. A manifesto calling for the masses to revolt. Apparently, after that radio report, there were scuffles between police and the crowd. A water cannon was brought in. The pressure was so weak the protesters danced in it. One produced a bar of soap from heavens knows where and applied it to his underarms. Very droll. That’s why I still bother with newspapers.”

“Miss Florentina, I was . . .”

“Of course one bothers,” she says. “Because our days are numbered. I’d like to find out how the story ends.” She reminds me of Lena, and of how Crispin could be. Old people act as if they’ve paid their dues just by living, and can therefore teach you something important. That’s why we the young both sometimes listen eagerly and sometimes never visit them. “It will end in tears, I wager,” she continues. “It’s always the same. One day, they’ll smell something odd from this apartment, and all the world’s problems will be someone else’s. The kids on the list for vacancies in this building will be tickled. You young are held in awe by high ceilings.”

“We are,” I say.

“I don’t know if I should tell you how to find her. She’s now free, you know?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Dulcinea.”

“I see. You don’t think that in the middle of the night, or when she reads her father’s name in the papers . . . maybe she wonders?”

“She’s out in the world, making it her own. What more can a person ask for? Freedom is the only thing we must demand in life, for all other good things stem from it. I can say this because I well know.” She points at her wheelchair. “But that’s fine. The world now
comes to me. It tends to when you have something people need.” She laughs. It is discomfiting, almost disingenuous. Miss Florentina peers at the letter again. She nods and holds it on her lap. Her fingernails are like claws.

She lowers her voice. “I think one of my suitors has been stealing my books. Don’t ask me how. Books just go missing. But listen to me go on.”

“What else did the letter—”

“Of course, one must go on! Never rest, lest it catch up. Because I could not stop for death . . . Though I was never one of those made frail by that grim obsession. Lena is. Ever since. She simply stopped trying. Because the afterlife is said to be
so
much better. She could have done anything with her life. Instead she remained her daddy’s little girl. Constantly pushing his wheelchair wherever he pointed. How mortified Lena was whenever he’d just stand up, spry as a teenager. She’d sort of shrink behind him, following with the empty chair. But I do prefer her gravity to the graceless ones, those who refer to themselves as ‘x-many years young.’ Crispin’s mother was like that. Maybe it was the weight of her cancer. We all cope differently. Suddenly these past months I catch myself. I’m ninety-five years young.” She grimaces. “
This
must be purgatory. Though you don’t have to worry yet. Even though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run.”

“Marvell. ‘To His Coy Mistress.’”

“Very good! I thought kids these days resorted to drink spiking, not poetry.”

“A little of both, I think.”

“I like you,” she says. “Come live with me and be my love.”

“And we will all the pleasures prove.”

“Oh, you do remind me of Crispin. He was quite the passionate shepherd. We used to trade lines of verse in the darkroom. Oh my, that does sound dirty, doesn’t it? He wanted to be a photographer, but he became a writer, thanks to me.”

“Do you think he was killed for his writing?”

“Why do young people enjoy unpleasantries?”

“I was just wondering . . .”

“Do you think it will make people take you more seriously? It
doesn’t.” Miss Florentina looks at the letter again. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be unpleasant. Tell me, what’s it like outside today? I observe the sky through the window, but that’s very different. I miss the feel of the first drops of rain. When I’m drawing my last breaths, I want to be wheeled out under the rain and be left there. You know what else I miss dearly? Driving. I used to drive myself every where. I had the sweetest little BMW. A 1974 3.0S. Same model as Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. See, I even know my cars! I sold it to a collector. It became such that I only used it to go to mass. One returns to the Godfulness of youth when the end is in sight. But as soon as I rediscovered the Lord, my legs gave out. As did the building’s elevator. The devil, when he makes himself known, always does it subtly. Now I spend my days looking for him in the quiet places. No, that’s not true.”

“Miss Florentina, did Crispin visit you when he was here last?”

“As long as I engage myself in work, then I’m close to God. Simone Weil, have you read her? She said deep attention is like prayer. I think so is hope. I just had her book somewhere. When Weil was six she refused to eat sugar in solidarity with the soldiers on the front. Children sometimes know best and we chide them for being precocious. Then we grow aged and become again like children, and they call us wise. I did see Crispin the last time he was here. Before his speech at the CCP, that silly little provocateur. He came bearing takeout food from the Aristocrat. When I studied him sitting where you are now, I knew what was eating him. Despite my better judgment, I told him: Go find your Dulcinea. He pretended he was angry, but I knew he was only afraid.”

“Of what?” I discreetly take out my notebook and fountain pen.

“Afraid of ruining things. Or change. Altering your life is hard.
I’m
the last person to criticize. But Crispy wasn’t free. When you’re unhappy with your life, you become more selfish with it.”

“Did he want to find her?”

“Of course. Though it was odd. We hardly ever spoke about her. Yet that last time he was here, he asked if I was in touch with her. I told him: Dear, go to her before it’s too late. But it was always already too late.”

“Then will you help me find her? For him?”

She shakes her head and smiles sadly. With difficulty, Miss Florentina turns to push away the curtain from the window behind her.
Light slants across the room, replacing the shadows with a Victrola in a corner and walls covered with bookshelves, framed photos, paintings by Galicano and Nuyda and Olmeda, and posters of her one-woman shows in Berlin and Barcelona and Buenos Aires. She must find comfort in these repositories of the outside world. Miss Florentina fishes a cigarette from the pocket of her skirt. With steady hands, she lights it.

“Simple pleasures,” she says, sighing smoke, “you’ll one day conclude, are the most enduring. Listen, child. I adore your persistence. But there are things that are not mine to tell.”

We sit quietly. My eyes adjust to the light. Behind her, the sky over Manila Bay remains profoundly white, like a page anticipating your first mark.

“I think,” I finally say, “that I understand what Crispin was going through.” I don’t know why I say this.

“Let’s just enjoy our chat and the wine, shall we? You did bring a
bouteille
?”

“I’m sorry? No, I didn’t forget. It’s only eleven in the morning and I thought—”

“Oh, you haven’t changed a bit. Always forgetful.”

“Me? I don’t understa—”

“What a shame! My two suitors bring me news and nourishment, but my third forgets the wine. You’re jealous. Admit it, Crispinito. What do you want from me anyway?”

“Do you want me to go and get a bottle? . . .”

“No! Please don’t. Won’t you spend the day with me?”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Crispin . . . I mean, I’ll tell you all about Crispin. Yes, I’ll tell you about Crispin. I taught him the important things, you know? For example, the instant before something comes into focus is more exciting than any sharp certainty. You should write that in your notebook. Photography, child, is about the passing of time. Capturing is the goal of literature. Timelessness is the task of music and painting. But a good photograph holds time just as a vase holds water. The water will evaporate and the vase becomes a memorial to it. What separates a snapshot from a masterpiece is that the latter is a metaphor for patience . . .”

“Yes, but—”

“What
is
your hurry, child?”

“It’s really important that I find Dulcinea.”

“Can’t you just have lunch with me? You’ll stay, won’t you? Let me see, what else can I entice you with? Crispin died, you know, not because the art left him, but because he gave up on love. Sounds like a romance novel, doesn’t it? Angry men have little to live for when their rage becomes ineffective. But how they thrive otherwise.”

“So do you think Dulcinea had anything to do with his suicide?”

“You were dead long before you left this world.”

“Miss Florentina, I’m not—”

“I mean
he
. . . Oh, I don’t know what I mean. What were we saying?” She looks flustered, suddenly withered and bent. Then she smiles. Her eyes spark with shrewdness. The cigarette smoke and that stench from her daybed make me nauseous.

“Tell me, child. Why do you need to find her?” She looks at me carefully. “Do you even know why?”

“I do.” I match her gaze. “Yes. I want to ask her what her father should have done.”

“Why?”

“Because I think it’s important to know.”

“It has nothing to do with that infernal book of his?”

“I’m only doing this for Crispin.”

Miss Florentina pauses, inhales the silence. A bird flies in the sky behind her—the first sign of natural life I’ve seen since arriving. It hovers on a current of air, black like a letter on a new page—an
m
. Miss Florentina smiles with painful sadness. “Okay, child,” she says. “I’ll tell you where.” Actually, her smile looks triumphant.