What would a young, beautiful widow in the Philippines do if she had brains and money as well? The world is wide open and it was at this point that Colonel Antonio Cunio came in. But first, may I point out one basic problem that I also encountered when I started this study.
I had wanted to do a survey of women in politics and we have many examples that date back to the earliest days of suffrage or, if you will, to the revolution against Spain when our women played a vital role. But by zeroing in on a particular subject, a woman I knew very well, I could detail the personal incidents, pry into motivation—all of which cannot be quantified, but which are important in any study. This would, probably, be termed as psychohistory or psychosociology. But I am not one to bother the general reader with obtuse jargon that is often the mumbo jumbo of muddled thinking or which is simply bad writing.
At first, Colonel Cunio, who is now retired, did not want to talk. I had to rely on the usual tricks of the interviewer to thaw out his reserve. I told him that I need not mention his name in the study but afterwards, he gave me blanket authority to use all the “facts” with his name if I wanted to.
As it turned out, he was loquacious, proud of his Korean War record, proud of his machismo.
All that he described happened during the time I was at Cambridge. I had not seen Narita since I left for the United States although in my third year there, I learned that she was in New York. Colonel Cunio was a Philippine Military Academy graduate; he prided himself on his knowledge of Philippine politics and grudgingly admitted that Narita was bright, particularly when she analyzed the Far East. “I don’t know where she got that smattering of Japanese,” he said wryly, “but when she started talking about periods in Japanese history, and Korea, too, she really had the field to herself.”
TAPE TWO
Colonel Antonio Cunio, retired:
I got my commission in 1947 and that same year, I commanded a platoon in the Huk campaign in Central Luzon. I was a junior at the PMA during the war and could have gotten my commission in the field … Nothing spectacular about World War II; we were disbanded in Cagayan and there was some guerrilla work. I was in several operations, including Four Roses—that was when William Pomeroy, the American communist, was captured. I also saw action in the Korean War, I suppose you have read about that although you may have been quite young then. Our battalion figured in the Imjin campaign and that was where I got this Distinguished Service medal. Well, actually, it was a retreat, for the Chinese were coming at us wave after wave and I led a company through a pincer movement. We lost five in that encounter, but I can assure you the Chinese lost many more. They were so close, we were fighting with fixed bayonets. We did no hand-to-hand fighting, but we were lobbing grenades. The barrels of the automatic rifles were hot and still they came, blowing their bugles. I had a flesh wound in the thigh—I did not even know it till one of the men pointed to my bleeding leg and they bandaged it to stop the flow. I was weak but you can rely on this old Tagalog blood to carry me through.
After the Korean War, I was sent to command schools in the United States and that was where I had my first white woman. It was quite an experience, you know. She was the wife of a lieutenant who was assigned to Germany and while she was waiting for her transfer, she came around and provided me company. There was this Korean girl, too, in Pusan. But you know how war is, how things come and go. When I returned after a year at Fort Benning and Fort Leavenworth, I was assigned to Camp Murphy—called Camp Aguinaldo now—to a desk job that had me bored as all desk jobs do. So I started looking around for patronage—you know, the old Filipino standby. And that was when I saw Senator Reyes who had known my father when my father was still active in Bulacan politics. It was the senator who got me as his aide and, later, when he became Senate President—one step to the Presidency—you know what that means! It was as an aide that I met Narita. I used to deliver messages from the Old Man to her, carry parcels, her blasted cakes, the special gifts that she bought for him when she went abroad, those Dutch cigars in special tinfoil. She was always hanging around the Old Man, attending to him more than his daughters ever did, and Senator Reyes was really eating off her palm. Yes, I think the senator became some sort of father to her. And what a father he turned out to be—more generous than any father would be. And I don’t blame him—the way his own children had been treating him as if he did not exist or that he existed only to give them money. I was drawn to her from the beginning, I suppose, although I am ten years older or more. But there is nothing like a younger woman for a middle-aged man. Good and tight, you know what I mean. Then her husband died. It was then that I felt I was free to attend to her. But not before. I still have some sense of ethics left, even when it came to sex. Besides, what would the Old Man say if he found out that I was shacking up with his daughter-in-law? I first dated her a full month after the death of Lopito. She was not a hypocrite. When I asked her if I could take her out nightclubbing at the Amihan, she said yes outright. I told her that it was not one of those high-class places, the food was awful, there were hostesses and she might feel insulted. But I knew she loved good music and there was an excellent band playing there. And she said, yes, don’t lecture me about what is decent and indecent; I can decide that for myself. We went in her Mercedes; she said it was better that way because she felt more independent. Damn it—that was what was wrong with her. She always wanted to be independent. To feel independent. To act independent. She did not give much of a chance for even a man like me to be her master. Or at least be on top. Do you know that even when we were doing it, she wanted to be on top? Well, I couldn’t do much about that. After all, I really needed her and loved her. I tried to keep it a secret but was not successful. My wife, who is also a very clever woman, got to know of it. But there was my career and I was close to one of the most powerful men in the country. She tried to accept it and keep quiet. Narita, too, wanted to keep up appearances and in a way, she was a very moral person. And that was when she thought she should go to the United States so she could be freer and less inhibited than she was in Manila. The Old Man was also very glad to have her go, to improve herself. And he knew of the relationship—he saw to it that I got an assignment in New York as attaché to the Mission there. I really enjoyed New York—that one year of freedom from the duties in Manila. Narita bought this apartment—or house, rather, in the East Sixties. Ah, you know about it. It cost a fortune then and it certainly must be a very expensive piece of property now. I hope that the radiator in her bedroom is already fixed. It was always squeaking, you know, and was often a bother. You know what I mean. Well, we had a son—her older boy, you know that. And I will never forgive her for giving him Lopito’s name. Everyone knew he was not Lopito’s. He was mine. And she told the boy it was Lopito who was his father. ot me. I cannot even visit him or tell him he is mine. That woman—she thought of everything. It could be blackmail, of course. But what could I do? I am a government servant and her father-in-law is one of the most powerful men in government. You know what I mean.
And then, she met Ambassador Iturralde. That was my mistake—I introduced her to him at one of those receptions where I thought I would show her off. You know, in any crowd, she would stand out. But you know something? I had one over all of them, over all of the men that she went with afterwards. Yes, no one can get this distinction from me. And I am very proud. It happened finally on our second date. I did not take advantage of her on the first. Just dancing, cheek to cheek, and a simple good-night kiss. Although I knew that she was waiting for me to make the move, I did not want to play it fast. Experience has taught me never to rush, just play it cool and slow. A week afterwards, I asked her if she wanted to go that Sunday for a drive to Bulacan where I grew up. There was this special restaurant along the highway which served wonderful crabs and snipes when they were in season. And she said yes. Of course, I had already made plans on how to seduce her—if seduction is the word. It is all very clear to me, the first time with her, and it was unforgettable, I suppos
e, also for her. It was a bright Sunday morning and we drove off towards Calumpit and had lunch at this roadside restaurant. She was game. It was not a fancy place and she seemed to enjoy it. Then I asked her if she wanted to see the fish ponds where the crabs and the milkfish were caught, and have a breath of fresh air besides and she said, yes. So we drove off towards the bay where my family had owned this fish pond for years. You pass this village before reaching it—and the villagers worked for my family, you know, and they knew why I was there. I suppose Narita also suspected. We got off at the village and I pointed out to her the ponds that lay beyond the clump of acacia trees at the turn of the river and said, those are ours. There was this hut alone in the expanse of dikes and water where the workers rest and I asked her if she wanted to go out there and take a closer look and she said, of course, and so we went. We were finally there, alone by ourselves. I took her inside the hut and kissed her. She responded with a passion that surprised me, considering that it was the first time I had really kissed her. At first, she was a bit apprehensive when I started taking off her dress, but I said I would keep watch, and that no one from the village would dare come and interrupt us. After all, this was not the first time I had taken a girl to the hut. Assured thus, she gave herself to me with an abandon that was almost anger. I know—and you know something? Damn it—goddamn it! I was the first. The first! All those years that she was married to Lopito, nothing had happened. I have the proof, damn it. I kept it. She was looking around for some tissue paper, but there was none and I had this white, spotless handkerchief which she used. It was all red, all red! I tell you, that is something no one can take away from me!
END OF TAPE
TWO
In the summer of ’62, I got a note from Narita; I was in my last year and was deep in work, writing my dissertation, and could not be disturbed, so I merely wrote to her saying thank you, yes, I had heard she was in New York and would visit her very soon, perhaps in early fall. It had been very difficult, living in Cambridge and trying to make my scholarship go farther. But I was fortunate to have a cheap studio off Memorial Drive and within walking distance to the Square. It was on the ground floor of a two-storey wooden frame house with a shingle roof. My landlord—a retired air force sergeant—worked as a security guard at Filene’s. His Filipino acquaintances when he was stationed for four years in Clark were black marketeers and hostesses along the Angeles strip and he was pleased to know someone different. He and his termagant wife often did nice things for me—invited me upstairs to dinner or sent me a piece of cake. I had my own entrance from the alley which gave me privacy, but in the winter I had to shovel tons of snow which were dumped on it.
I found it a bit incongruous that I should be working on the rural problems and the family structure of the Philippines in New England when I should have been doing something more original and creative like studying the blacks or even the simpler case of old-timers in Hawaii and the West Coast who were never assimilated into the American mainstream. Filipinos working for their Ph.D.’s in America should study America—otherwise there is no sense in going there, just as Americans working on their Ph.D.’s come to the Philippines for their fieldwork. But there is always a special aura to having an American Ph.D. and we must pay for that aura.
I was very much surprised one afternoon when Narita appeared at my boardinghouse. She was big with child but even though bloated, she looked lovely.
“Eddie, you snob,” she said the moment she came in. I glanced at the big car, a Continental, that was parked in the street and inside was an aging mestizo whom I recognized at once. He had a Filipino driver up front.
“Isn’t that the ambassador?”
“Yes, darling,” she said, taking my hand and taking me inside my cluttered room.
“Well, ask him in. I don’t mind …”
“No, darling,” she said sweetly. “Let him wait. After all, I just asked him for a lift so that I could see you.”
“All the way from New York?”
She smiled and closed the door behind her.
I had known of Lopito’s death two or three years before. Looking at her big belly, I said, “That’s progress. So you got married again.”
“Ummmm.”
“I would like to meet him. Is he in New York with you?”
She tweaked my nose. “You poor dear—so behind the gossip. This is my second. And the father—well, it’s that poor man outside waiting for us to finish our small talk.”
“You mean the ambassador?”
“Darling, certainly not the driver! Didn’t you know?”
I shook my head. She took everything with amusement. “And tell me, how is your dissertation coming along? The other evening, your adviser was in New York, in my house for dinner. Did you know that? I’ve met a few people. I have dated quite a few interesting men. A certain John F. Kennedy—”
“Really now,” I said. Narita was never a braggart. She was just stating a fact.
“Well, it is a long way from Santa Ana, isn’t it?” she said. She asked me about my sisters and my parents, how the old town was. She had not been there since her marriage to Lopito but she had dispatched an engineer to build a house, right where the old house stood, so that her mother would have something better to live in.
Long after she left, I wondered what on earth she had come to see me for. I decided to take up her invitation and that December, shortly before Christmas, I went to visit her.
It had already begun to snow in Boston, the last golden leaf of maple had fallen, and a bleakness was all over the landscape. It was an unusually warm December afternoon when I got to the Greyhound bus station on Forty-second Street and because I just had a small weekender suitcase, I decided to walk to her house on Sixty-eighth Street. It was a good, invigorating walk up Fifth Avenue with its Christmas decor, the smell of roasting chestnuts in the air. I paused briefly at the Rockefeller Plaza where ice skaters were showing off.
Her house was in a residential area on the East Side, a short walk from Central Park, a neighborhood of walk-ups and boutiques. She was expecting me, and she answered the doorbell. Narita, I saw again, was beautiful, her hair falling down her shoulders, her lips red though without a touch of lipstick. She embraced me warmly and gave me another of those full, wet kisses. She smelled of cologne and freshness and all the wonderful scents I remembered of her. She was slim again and she said, “Yes, I had a boy. I have two boys now. Want to see them?”
She took me to the basement which was prettied up into a nursery. I noticed at once that the older boy was dark and the newborn was, like her and Iturralde, very fair.
She smiled at me, divining my thoughts, and pinched me on the side. “I will tell you everything,” she said.
The house had four storeys including the basement. The ground floor opened to a narrow garden which she had done with rocks, evergreens and huge clam shells from the Philippines. A wisteria filled the other end. I could imagine how beautiful it would be all lighted up for some evening party. Nothing ostentatious about the house although the furnishings were expensive, the beige leather sofas, the Afghan rugs, the soft blue velvet drapes. She had an Albers, two Pollocks, plus her paintings from the Philippines, santos, and antique china which would cost a fortune in New York as they already did in Manila. She had three full-time Filipino maids, one a registered nurse who looked after the babies and the house. They occupied two of the rooms in the basement and had their own entrance.
Narita had prepared pinakbet which I was not particularly fond of, but the fact that she had cooked it herself, touched me. She ate a little for she would be going out that evening to a dinner. She would miss the cocktails but since it was close by, she would have more time with me. I wanted to ask many questions but I didn’t have to; she was telling me many things and at the same time asking me about Santa Ana.
“I am not going to be his mistress forever,” she said finally. “His wife won’t divorce him. But even if she did, I won’t marry him. He is a wonderful, tho
ughtful man—and he has given me all the love and attention that someone in his position can give. He is also a very lonely man, a very misunderstood man, and I love him very much.”
“What is love to you now, Narita?”
I had not meant the question to be so crude.
She was holding the silver spoon and had just ladled out another spoonful of the vegetable stew into my plate. We were in her dining room, before that finely carved rosewood table with the silver candelabra and its four unlighted candles and lace tablecloth.
I had already taken off my jacket and was very comfortable in my turtleneck sweater. I had even shucked off my shoes and had really made myself at home.
“Do not ask me to make definitions,” she said sharply. “Look at me, what I do, how I react. What are words?”
“Extensions of our thoughts.”
“But they could be different from what we do. And I want to do a lot, to live a lot. I also know where I am headed. I have two boys—but that’s not enough. I could live for them, but what do we live for anyway? You ask me what love is, you may just as well ask why I am alive …”
I had not intended to get into a philosophical discussion only to get lost in a maze of contradictions, but she was doing the talking. “We all grow up,” she said. “Or am I presuming things?”
I held her hand.
“Did you know that I have an M.A. in Far Eastern studies from Columbia?”
I had heard about her studying, but the degree surprised me—not that she did not have the talent for it but that she had the perseverance.
Three Filipino Women Page 3
