They are all gone now—my children. Yes, I raised quite a good and handsome brood and I had hoped they would grow into princes and princesses, the heirs that I wanted, but this was not meant to be. Still, fate had been very kind to me, to have let me live to this nice old age to see some of my ideological handiwork take root in a country where anything grows. Perhaps it was wrong for me to have laid so much emphasis, or hope, on the family as the shaper of this country’s future. Yes, I’m an autocrat, a patriarch, and I saw to it that all those under my wing were protected and those outside—I will not say exterminated—although that is what my enemies thought I was doing. Ignored, that is the word. Ignored! I wanted all of them to go as fast and as far as my vision wanted. They were going to be pillars, not only of the clan. I had seen destiny—we the Reyeses—or kings—leading them. I am not His Majesty, although there is really little difference in a country where the family is the beginning and the end.
What is all this talk about revolution, the class struggle? All these I postulated thirty years ago. But how do you really remove the kings? By changing their names and calling them senators? Oligarchs? The intelligentsia agreed with me, they quoted me, they hovered around, partaking of the wisdom which I threw at them like crumbs. I told them nationalism is necessary and the kings themselves must profess it so that they will not lose their heads. It must not be just love of country, but love of people—and here, I mean the lower classes. And that is what I have done, loved the people, worked for them, gave them jobs, direction to their aspirations for dignity, upliftment from the morass in which they had been immersed and which they had come to accept. I raised them up a bit; and in the process, why shouldn’t I raise myself higher, too, higher than all of them, the way it had always been? What will happen to the people if they have no leaders?
History will judge me not for what I am, however, and not even for what I have done but for what I have said. This is what goes on the record, this is what is dished out to the masses to read. And there will be scholars in the future as there are today who do not question the documents they read, who do not go beyond the archival presentation of the bureaucracy.
Between the lines, that is where history has always been.
There will always be those, however, who will say that history is written by the strong, but that is not enough: history has to be believed if it is to have currency, and believers are what I have always tried to make. There are enough dolts and jackasses among our elite who believe that they are so anointed to rule merely because they have their own propagandists churning out praises for them which, in time, they come to accept as the truth. I was never one of them—I always knew the limitations of power. But at the same time, I was also aware of the cupidity of those men who exercised power … Politics has always been accommodation, not uncompromising idealism, although that could help camouflage the real intentions of politicians. This is what I have always told Narita and this, I think, she believed.
What can I say about her? She was my daughter, she was my pupil, she was my heir. All my children—it is not that they have failed me. It was never in their blood—I see that now—to give the nation the service, the thinking that it needed, the way I devoted my life to it. But Narita—from the beginning, I knew that she would do justice to the name she had taken.
If I were only younger … but it does not matter. She was some woman, better looking than all the women I have had, and there have been a few … She learned very fast, she should have been the first woman president. She got as high as the Senate but even there, look at what she had done, the many programs on nutrition, on culture, on science she had started, the many Centers that were built at her inspiration. Food production has increased, thanks to her, and the sugar workers—although I should not be talking like this—are better off now because of her untiring and unselfish devotion to their cause. Don’t laugh—you know that my life had always revolved around sugar, its problems, its world market and, of course, that beautiful quota from the United States. But we were willing to be pushed a bit, not by those mealy mouthed priests, not by those radical labor leaders, but by those whom we trust, who know our feelings, who are part of our constellation. If we give justice to people, we should do so without being prodded and, by God, that is what we did.
These and so many more are Narita’s achievements and no gossip monger, no vitriolic critic can take these away.
I knew Narita as a child, I watched her grow; her ideas on nationalism, she got them from me. I was instrumental in shaping them, guiding them. Not that she did not have a mind of her own. In fact she was so independent at times, she could even afford afterwards to antagonize my friends and taunt the whole system itself.
So she has left me two wonderful boys who will not forget their mother as the most heroic, the most unusual Filipina in our history. Gabriela Silang, Tandang Sora, all those revered Filipinas in our lineage—they are really nothing compared to her. The scholars should have no difficulty in confirming this …
END OF TAPE
Looking back, I have often wondered about the exact moment when I began to delude myself. I know now that it was done slowly, bit by bit, with my own circumstances and needs, pushing me, my desire to justify myself, that I was really earning the money that she paid me. I also began to believe, towards the latter part of the relationship, that nothing much could be done about our political malaise until she had real power, when she could dictate and no longer have to deal with slimy politicians and make compromises. I realize that this is a fallacy, that government is not a vacuum, that where there are human relationships, compromises are inevitable and that, precisely speaking, the statesman is also a superb politician.
During the first year of her term, I worked hard and there were heated arguments within the think tank for the others were never told—and I never told them—that she was aiming for the Presidency. Of course, that did occur to them. The programs that we shaped always kept her in the public eye. She was a national figure now and well beyond the narrow partisan confines of bloc, of party. She had taken on, too, the nationalist mantle that the aging senator bestowed on her.
It was in the second year of her term that she went to this small college in our province to deliver a commencement address. It was a request she could not deny; besides, it afforded her a chance to see again the old hometown and, perhaps, renew ties. And as the newspapers related it, after she had finished her extemporaneous address on social justice as an ideal she wanted the young to promote, there was a standing and thunderous ovation. It was at this instance, too, that the young graduates all rushed to the stage to congratulate her. It was a mob scene and the stage suddenly swayed and then collapsed.
She had been knocked against a rusty iron truss, there was a gash on her arm—nothing serious, and she was moving around with a sling when she got to the provincial hospital her father-in-law had built.
It was the ultimate irony; a doctor decided to give her an anti-tetanus shot, just to be sure. In seconds, she was gasping in a massive anaphylactoid attack. There was no resuscitator, no anti-allergy shot available at that instance. In less than five minutes, she was dead.
These details were ignored by the papers. It was more dramatic to say it was the people’s enthusiasm which killed her, that she died in her home ground, defending the rights of the poor sacadas against the rich sugar oligarchs, the applause of the youth her lasting epitaph.
The mythmakers, particularly the PR staff of Senator Reyes, had more than a kernel to start with: The Narita Reyes Foundation immediately came into being purportedly to perpetuate the ideals for which Narita gave her life. Nowhere was it mentioned that the young people had rushed and crowded that flimsy stage for at the end of her speech Narita started handing out those envelopes that were, by then, a familiar gimmick in her public appearances and her campaign …
In a couple of years, there floated around variations of her last moments, perhaps to fit the temper of the times. Now, the CIA was responsible. She
had been vocal in her anti-Americanism, in her espousal—like her father-in-law—of the removal of the American bases. The CIA saw to it that the stage would collapse!
I knew her well enough to see through her, that like Senator Reyes whose sugar interests survived on American largesse, Narita’s anti-Americanism was for the galleries, for the pseudointellectuals of the campuses.
The aides of Senator Reyes woke me up at three o’clock that morning and the senator and I flew to Bacolod in his Cessna, with the casket on board in the back. He was silent during the flight, his crumpled face grown darker with his grief. When we got to the hospital at daybreak, he thundered and raged and said he would have every doctor there forbidden to practice and jailed. We went to the room where Narita lay and at the sight of her, he broke down, the sobs torn out of him in gusts.
They brought the casket in and he forbade them to touch her; only the two of us could. I did not realize till then how light she was. Looking at the quiet face, the eyes closed as if in sleep, the cleft chin, it all came back—the little girl I had played with in Santa Ana, the splashing rain, the ripe guavas and the green cascade of cadena de amor in bloom. I did not want the Old Man to see me cry so I let the tears burn and fall without my wiping them.
She was buried in Manila. Her mother, my parents, and some of our hometown friends who could afford the trip were there. It was a hot April day and we sweated in the hall of the Senate as we listened to the lengthy eulogies.
It was vacation time anyway so after the funeral, I decided to go home with Father and Mother. Our house looked shabby, its wooden sidings in need of paint. I walked over to Narita’s new house. It was much more substantial, the biggest house in Santa Ana, bigger than the municipio. The guava and pomelo trees had not been cut but they could not now hide the big house with wooden balustrades and red-painted roof as they had the old house roofed with rusting tin. I don’t know if it was on Narita’s instructions, but they did not tear down the old brick wall that enclosed the yard and the cadena de amor—now scraggly brown and shorn of leaves—clambered over it. Sometime soon, when the rains shall have started, the vines would be green again.
Sei Thomas Gakuin
Kyoto, April 6, 1979.
OBSESSION
ONE
I hesitate to put down some of the details in this story because they are so intensely personal, they are bound to be misunderstood by friends who know me for my objectivity and detachment, qualities that have made me quite successful in a field crowded by charlatans. Not that my hands are impeccably clean—if we define integrity narrowly, if we polarize the world in black and white, then, certainly, I have not been morally upright. I must avoid euphemisms and say outright that I have been a pimp; for what else is procuring some of the most expensive call girls in town to service clients who have flown in from Wall Street or from Marunouchi? That is precisely what I had done, proceeded to find out who in Didi’s stable was available for the evening.
In a way, I am afraid of women. When I was ten, my mother left my father to live with another man. I am now certain that this was the single, most traumatic incident in my life. I worshipped my father and I could not imagine my mother in the arms of another man.
Looking back at what had happened to my marriage I am not surprised that Lydia left me, too, although not for another man, but to flee from the implacable demands of my office, my erratic behavior—as she called it. She had wanted to raise our three children in an atmosphere free from tension and I suppose she succeeded. The kids are grown up now and they seem very normal and happy. Sometimes though, they wonder aloud why Lydia and I never got together again.
My father was not too good at providing for us—he had to work doubly hard at being a surrogate mother and tried to give us a good education, knowing his money would not be wasted. He knew I would be able to make it on my own, from the days of World War II when I was one of the youngest guerrilla officers to fight in the Yamashita campaign. I bore no wounds from that war, other than what scabbed in the mind and heart. I still have the forty-five caliber automatic which I carried then and never used after the war was over. I have not been vicious except, perhaps, once, but this story is not about my war experiences, nor about Media Consultants which I manage, but about my obsession with Ermi.
How could this happen to me at the late age of fifty-five? I have traveled and wallowed in the pleasures of one Babylon or another. I thought I knew all the pitfalls, yet I was shorn of my pride and became naked as the day I was born.
And all because Ermi Rojo was a prostitute.
Ever since the breakup of my marriage in the early sixties, I have lived in an apartment in Mabini, near Padre Faura. In the early evenings, if I don’t jog at the Luneta, I often take a walk along the district’s darkened streets. Mabini itself is swept clean for the tourists, as with all of Manila’s major avenues, but the narrow sidestreets are awash with the stench of uncollected garbage and human waste oozing out of clogged sewers. Sometimes, I am apprehensive knowing that I may be accosted by hoodlums, beaten up and stabbed. I take a walk just the same almost as a matter of habit, a kind of ceremony with which I welcome the night.
My favorite bar-restaurant, the Camarin—the classiest call girl establishment of them all—has undergone several changes since it was set up in the fifties. It used to serve native cooking, nothing exceptional; then, shortly after martial law was declared in 1972, it became a discreet beer house with first class pulutan, including marinated raw fish with generous slices of onions.
The Japanese brought the latest fad to Camarin—the open grill where fresh fish, eggplant and what-have-you are roasted right before the customer. Now, it has a dozen go-go dancers, all young and curvy, who prance about on a narrow stage, in very brief costumes.
I join the night crowd there, the smoke densely floating around, the smell of beer and mankind gone sour comingled with the heat of day. A chubby girl ambles up the stage, her flanks tawny in the yellow light and on her rear the name Gloria. What glory can she possibly bring to these jaded lechers like myself? She gyrates her broad hips, thrusts them towards her audience lasciviously to the rhythm of “Saturday Night Fever,” her face without expression. The men talk on, barely giving her a glance.
Didi, my lesbian friend who manages the Camarin, sits at one corner. For more than a decade, she had watched over the place, showing an album of stabled girls only to customers of long standing. She is stouter now than when I first met her. She still regards men as competitors and her eye for feminine beauty is as sharp as ever. It was she who introduced Ermi Rojo to me and that night I met Ermi is permanently etched in my mind.
Two years after I set up Media Consultants, I began to have a bit of time on my hands, time which, I thought, I could use to write. I had set up my Makati office in recognition of that old saying that if you can’t lick them, join them. Nationalism is edifying for conversation, editorials, etc., but not profitable in actual practice for as long as the Philippines remains an American colony. This was my experience in the ten years that I worked for B.G. Collas’ advertising agency; I saw his outfit dwindle, his accounts taken over by American firms because these accounts were, in the first place, also American.
But I had the right credentials and luck was on my side. Steve Williams, a former classmate at Yale, came to Manila. He was then head of the economic research department of one of the major Wall Street financing houses and he wanted ties with a Filipino firm that would give his company economic intelligence as well as an “in” with Filipino media. There was no such firm in Manila and there and then, he said he would help me start up Media Consultants, in partnership with the New York firm which had worldwide affiliations and whose president happened to also be a Yale man. A rush trip to New York finalized the arrangement and before long, I had several American and Japanese financial institutions as clients. I had always believed that management made more practical sense than book-learned knowledge and in two years, my outfit was efficiently functioning.
> I reread my dissertation on the Filipino entrepreneurial elite and realized that it was empty of the insights that I had now. The dissertation never touched on the social vices of this elite, the function of sexuality in determining not just status but, in a far more significant way, how sex influences corporate mobility, the rise and even downfall of businesses through excesses in the ancient querida system. This lack led me to delve deeper into Filipino sexuality, from the time of Pigafetta to the present, not just as historical fact but as an expression of our culture.
To put it in another way: Two great thinkers had postulated man’s drives and salvation. Marx pontificated on the stomach and Freud on the gonads. I was going to be the “third great thinker”—I would synthesize the two approaches and explain what makes Filipino society, why we behave the way we do.
But postulating was not enough; I needed data, background on the earliest sexual practices of Filipinos, the marriage customs of the ethnic groups and what they could reveal about pre-Hispanic attitudes towards marriage and family. I wanted to find out how our contemporary writers handled sex in their stories, novels, their poetry, how homosexuals influenced culture because of their pivotal positions as movie and stage directors and as couturiers who influenced the wives of the elite. I had some background on the sexual practices of executives, the backrooms of their offices furnished like bedrooms for after-lunch sex. I knew of one powerful brokerage manager who had a covey of women in his shop employed solely to provide him with gratification. One of the girls, as a matter of fact, was there to give him a blow job during the morning coffee break.
The amours of the political elite were flagrant. Some of the men close to our past presidents, from Quezon onwards, shared with me their knowledge of affairs in the Palace. But as my research continued, I realized that I had begun to look at prostitution not as a social condition but as a matter of integrity.
Three Filipino Women Page 7
