Authors: Miguel Syjuco
For youth was all he had. Boyish in the manner of those who pass seamlessly from adolescence to old age, he moved with self-conscious uncertainty but wrote with abandon, almost always to a fault. He favored torn bell-bottom jeans, pinstripe double-vented jackets, and T-shirts that he’d clearly hoped would project his personality, sporting slogans like
YOUR CHIVAS OR MINE
? or
JIM LEHRER FOR PRESIDENT
. He was perpetually late for my workshop and his excuses felt like lies. He often spoke too quickly, looked out of the sides of his eyes, and was aggressive toward the ideas and writing of his classmates. I don’t think he was well liked.
I found myself typing with the rhythm of a storm on your roof. I presented him as a father, as a son, as a holy ghost. To imagine the mystery of his life, I started with the certainty of his death. He was found floating, spread-eagle and faceup in the brackish overrun of the Pasig River.
From the possibilities, a story was selected, unfolded. The world losing that boy through its complicated mechanics began to hint at parallels, at symmetries, perhaps because the telling of a story imbibes the chaos of our own days with a certain elegance, a comprehensible beauty. When you’re old and lost, is it really pathetic to search for connections to explain our choices to ourselves?
The boy became a man. A young man—a description that encompasses all the promises of living. When I finished writing, spent, after four seasons at the typewriter, I had knotted his being forever with mine. And with this fiction of possibilities, entwined with the possibilities of fiction, I’ve woven in my own unlived life.
And so, my return. I write these final words as I approach my first day home.
Home to what remains of my family.
Home to my child, for whenever she’s ready.
Home, with the discovery that we are only enlightened at a new beginning, at what we perceive to be the end.
—Crispin Salvador, en route to Manila, December 1, 2002
My gratitude has no order, and it will not fit on this page. But in true Pinoy fashion, I’ll try.
My deepest thanks go to Mom and Dad, for giving me my life; and to all my siblings (in-laws included), for making that life loving, secure, and filled with laughter.
To my coach, comrade, and pal: John C. Evans, who was there before the beginning, who edited this work through all the drafts, and who has taught me more about writing than anyone else.
To my editors: Eric Chinski, my ally in the trenches, who helped, pencil brandished, patiently make this book all it could be; to Nicole Winstanley, Paul Baggaley, and Meredith Curnow, who have such faith in my work I can’t help but be enlightened; and to my editors in other languages—as we say in Tagalog,
Salamat
. And, of course, I can’t forget all the people (copyeditors, assistants, translators, designers, and others) who made my manuscript a book.
To my agents: Peter Straus and Melanie Jackson, my indispensable guides and reliable friends in the world of publishing, and to Laurence and Stephen and the good folks at Rogers, Coleridge, and White, for bringing my work across the planet.
To my teachers: the Ateneo de Manila, my light in dominoes; Columbia University’s Writing Division, which taught the tools of the trade; and, of course, the University of Adelaide, whose support made this book possible. Whatever I achieve is the success of all my teachers, especially Paul Go, Rofel Brion, DM Reyes, Danton Remoto, Jing and Tony Hidalgo; my master’s guides Jessica Hagedorn,
Jaime Manrique, Jonathan Dee, Victoria Redel, Alan Ziegler; and my PhD supervisors Di Schwerdt, Brian Castro, Ben Marcus, and, especially, Nick Jose.
Thanks, too, to those behind the Palanca Awards and the Man Asian Literary Prize, who saw the merit in my book long before it was published.
My gratitude goes to Dr. Deberah S. Goldman, for teaching me that within the extraordinary first exists the ordinary, to Clinton Palanca, for being a brother in arms, and to Manuel Quezon III, whose tireless work helps explain our country to ourselves. To Conrad and Laurent,
pour l’amour sans condition
. To sweet Mary Jane, for always reminding me. And to my friends, for being a big part of this life from which I draw inspiration.
Of course, I save the best for last. I thank my Edith—my mate,
ma vie
,
aking pangarap
—without whom all this work would be impossible, without whom I would not see this world for how wonderful it can be.