Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks)

by F. Sionil Jose

  “I have been waiting for some time now, Eustaquio,” he said, smiling. In the dimming light, his face was drawn and pale, even stern. “Your Dalin and your two boys have been very good company. I even had a taste of suman and a cup of your new basi. I say it is ready, although Dalin says it is not.”

  “You are a better judge of that than I, Apo,” Istak said.

  “I came here to take you to town,” he said. “Now—if you have nothing else to do. I have a guest … you know that, don’t you?”

  Istak nodded. “It cannot be hidden, Apo. Not in the way he arrived. Most of all, because he is with you.”

  Dalin wanted them to eat supper first. She had broiled a big mudfish and the pot of rice on the stove was already bubbling. Don Jacinto demurred; they must hurry and they could very well eat in his house.

  On both sides of the darkening trail, the fields spread out, deep green in the fading light. Soon they would turn yellow and golden with harvest. Istak walked beside Don Jacinto, who was astride his horse, mosquitoes and moths around them, the frogs tuning up in the shallow paddies.

  “What do you know of my visitor, Eustaquio?”

  “Nothing much, Apo. That he is your old friend.”

  “Nothing can really be hidden in this town,” Don Jacinto said. “Still, you must remember that there are spies, people brown like you, and we must make his presence as secret as possible. The Americans are no different from the Spaniards. Do you think it matters that we are destroyed as long as they get what they want?”

  Istak did not speak. He had always been circumspect before those who wore shoes and jackets. He had long believed that only by listening would he be able to acquire more knowledge.

  Don Jacinto noted his silence. “I did not get you so that we could discuss the politics of acquiescence,” he said. Then he explained what had happened—both the Cripple’s* manservant and secretary were ill and had left. And now, the Cripple himself was not well. He was always perspiring. Something was wrong with his urine—it was darker than usual and pains were shooting up his sides. The mention of pain in his sides alerted and alarmed Istak, but he could not be sure until he had seen the sick man.

  It was already night when they reached Don Jacinto’s house. Like most of the people of Rosales, Don Jacinto’s father came from the north. He had done the cartilla in Rosales and then went on to Manila, and upon returning, he acquired more land. His father was an enterprising trader and knew how to please the friars as well. More than that, he had his son learn not just the intricacies of the law but how to deal with officials. No one in Rosales had suspected that the man who was very friendly with the friars and the capitán of the Guardia in Urdaneta, who often played chess and drank sherry with him, was actually a member of the northern revolutionary junta. They did not know that when studying in Manila, he had met other young ilustrados who were to lead the uprising against Spain.

  Now, he was cabeza, and though there was not a single soldier in town, Rosales was peaceful. The town fiesta in June, which should not have been held anymore if only to protest against the friars who instituted it, was held just the same with the comedia and all the delightful entertainment that he arranged.

  The oil lamps in the big house were all lighted and frames of yellow glimmered from the shell windows. The dogs in the yard howled, and out of the open gate, a man on a horse galloped into the night.

  Don Jacinto reined in his mount. “I hope he did not bring bad news from Tarlak,” he said softly, more to himself than to Istak, as he cantered into the yard.

  Up at the great house, in the sallow glow of the lamps, the red floor shone, the porcelain pedestals stood serene in corners, the carved wooden chairs with crocheted covers were all in place as if the house were not intended to be lived in. Istak followed Don Jacinto across the polished hall to the azotea beyond, and to an open door which led to a large room. It was better lighted than the hall itself—a new Aladdin lamp dangled from the ceiling, ablaze with light, and at both ends of the massive table, two other lamps were perched. Don Jacinto’s visitor was seated at the table, a sheaf of newspapers before him. The Great Man wore a white cotton shirt that hung loosely about him as if it were too big. Though young, he looked wasted and had a sickly pallor. He was poring over papers, shaking his head and cursing under his breath. Istak could make out the “sin vergüenzas” as they erupted in an almost steady stream.

  “I hope it is not bad news, Apolinario,” Don Jacinto said in Spanish.

  The Cripple did not even look up from what he was reading. “It is always bad news now, Jacinto,” he said, also in Spanish. “We are facing a superior enemy, as you very well know, with far more resources than the Spaniards. And still we haven’t learned. Our generals quarreling. No discipline! And these Americans, they also have the means to tell the world how righteous they are …”

  He finally turned to them, flailing a sheet of paper. “Here is the latest outrage by their correspondent, this wretched Thomas Collins—calling our soldiers cowards who refuse to fight in the daytime—that when we fight at all, we are always running.”

  “But wasn’t that what you wanted, and General Luna, too?”

  “Of course, of course!” the Cripple exclaimed and drew back, sitting straight. Beside him was a reclining chair and with great effort he eased himself into it. Don Jacinto strode forward to help him, but the Cripple waved him away, saying, “I told you, I told you …”

  The Cripple drew a shawl over his wasted legs. “A guerrilla war—that is what we must now wage. But General Aguinaldo—forgive me for saying this—he is selfish and stupid. He is envious of generals like Luna who tried to put some discipline into the army. Luna is dead, killed by the same people he sought to discipline. We lost a good leader, one who could build a fighting force from the rabble … and yet, much as I loathe Aguinaldo and disagree with him, he is now the symbol of resistance against the enemy. My personal feelings—” He paused and looked upward to the ceiling adorned by an unlighted chandelier. The soft, warm voice continued: “How can I reply to their charges, show that we are ready to rule ourselves? And when are a people ever ready? Should another race determine that for them? Our constitution—it embodies our national sentiments and can stand as a document of freedom with any other free constitution in the world.” He dropped the sheet of paper on the floor.

  “These Americans, this Thomas Collins, they do not understand. Or perhaps they don’t want to understand because what they really want is to subdue us. Still, I have to reply to such lies so that the world will know we are not cowards or immature children. Do you know that in one of his dispatches he said all Filipinos are thieves? Their soldiers camped in Manila told him this—that unless their supplies were well guarded, they would all be stolen by Filipinos. If so, then let it be! It is not thievery to steal from them—it is an act of war, and may Filipinos bleed them to death …”

  “How long did the courier travel from Tarlak this time?” Don Jacinto asked.

  “Less than a day’s ride,” the Cripple said. “So I really am not too late with the news—” The Cripple stopped and looked at Istak, who remained standing by the door, hearing everything.

  “You can trust him, Apolinario,” Don Jacinto said quietly. “This is Eustaquio. He understood everything we said.”

  Istak bowed and fumbled for words: “Good evening, Apo.” The familiar Spanish words flowed out finally.

  Don Jacinto continued: “There is no doctor anywhere near but Eustaquio is very good. He has taken care of many people. If we have to have a doctor, we have to go to Tarlak.”

  The Cripple shook his head. “The Americans will soon be there,” he said wanly.

  Don Jacinto nodded. “Give him a chance to help you.”

  “I do not have a choice,” the Cripple said, suddenly laughing, the pallid face instantly transformed. He was homely and dusky, with a narrow forehead, but the severity of his countenance was banished. He was just another man still in his youth, brimming with humor.
r />   Don Jacinto left to arrange for their supper.

  “I hope that my humble self can be of service to you, Apo,” Istak said in very polite Spanish and in the same obeisant tone with which he had always addressed Padre Jose.

  The Cripple looked at him, then shook his head. “Do not speak to me in such a manner, Eustaquio. I am not old or venerable. Besides, I am really at your mercy.” He pointed to one of the rattan chairs close by. “And don’t stand there. Sit down.”

  Istak took the proffered chair. Beside him was a porcelain washstand with a polished mirror, and close to the Cripple’s bed was another table piled with books, an inkstand, and sheets of paper. The man had been writing and Istak could see the careful script. Istak could still write as well as that, perhaps even better. He had taken pride in his penmanship but had not held a pen in a long time and had done whatever writing he had to do with a pencil.

  “Tell me, Eustaquio,” the Cripple asked. “How is it that you speak Spanish so well?”

  “I was an acolyte in the church of Cabugaw, señor. In the Ilokos.”

  “Jacinto says you are a healer. How long have you been one?”

  “About ten years now, Apo,” Istak said. “I learned a little from an old priest about medicinal plants. And, of course, with prayer and God’s help there is always hope.”

  Silence. Then the Cripple spoke again: “I have been suffering for some time now. I have pains here,” he said, pressing his sides. “You cannot see it now because the pan has been emptied, but when I urinate it is very milky. And I perspire so much, as you can see.” He wiped his brow, which was moist even in the cool September evening.

  His meal came in—the new rice still steaming and fragrant, salted eggs, a small dish with salted fish and sliced tomatoes, and dried meat which was fried.

  Istak shook his head. The Cripple wanted to share the food with him but Istak demurred; he would take his meal with the servants in the kitchen after Don Jacinto and his family had eaten. He stood up; he had confirmed what he suspected. “I will go now, Apo,” he said. “I will come back shortly with your medicine.”

  In the dining room, Don Jacinto had already sat down with his family to eat and a servant hovered by the table waving a paper wand to keep the flies away. “I will return in a short while, Apo,” Istak said.

  He hurried down the deserted street, disturbing the stray dogs lying there. At the edge of the town, he looked at the saplings, then crossed the creek to the other side until he came to a young banaba tree. He could make out the blossoms; they would be a pretty violet in the sunlight. He reached out to a low branch and plucked a lot of them together with the young leaves. With the bundle under his arm, he returned to Don Jacinto’s house and told the cook to boil some of the flowers and the leaves immediately.

  His dinner was ready; Don Jacinto was indeed a good man—the food that his servants ate was the same as his honored guest’s.

  He let the concoction cool a little, then took it to the Cripple. He was now propped up by pillows before the table and was writing in his journal, the Aladdin lamp bluish and brilliant above him.

  “You must drink this, señor,” Istak told him, placing the pitcher and a glass on the table. “It is slightly bitter, but I hope it will do you good. And don’t drink anything else but this. I ask you not to cat salty food. In fact, it would be best if you had no salt at all.”

  “And what is this?” the Cripple asked, raising the glass and examining it in the light.

  Istak showed him the flowers and the leaves. The Cripple knew them. “There are many of these here,” Istak said. “And if there aren’t any, I can make another equally good remedy for you.”

  As the Cripple took the cup and raised it to his lips, Istak recited, “Dominus Jesus Christus apud te sit, ut te defendat et te curet …”

  The Cripple paused, and laid the cup on the table, his eyes wide open in surprise. “Do you know what you just said?”

  Istak smiled. “Yes, Apo. The ritual prayer.”

  “Translate what you said, word for word.”

  Istak made the translation into Spanish. “May the Lord Jesus Christ be with you, that He may defend you and cure you …”

  “You surprise me!” the Cripple exclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his homely face. Then he took the cup and emptied it with a grimace.

  “Now you condemn me to hell as well. Perhaps it is better that I starve. Food without salt! What else did that old priest teach you?”

  “What is perhaps taught in a seminary, señor,” Istak said.

  The Cripple seemed pensive for a while, as if he were savoring what he drank, as if he could not quite believe what he had heard. “The world is full of surprises,” he finally said. “Here I am, a stranger to this place, to the language, and yet I feel so safe because I know I am among people I can trust.” He glanced around the room, then at the herbolario. “Jacinto and I were classmates in Manila, Eustaquio. I have entrusted my life to him—just as I have done to you.”

  “Thank you, Apo,” Istak said. There was nothing for him to do.

  “Will you return tomorrow? Early? And have breakfast with me? If your medicine is good, I will wake up healthy!”

  Istak fidgeted. He would be imposing on Don Jacinto, at whose table he had never eaten before, and now, with this awesome company. The Cripple seemed to divine his thoughts. “Eustaquio, I come from a poor family in Batangas. We must stop thinking of ourselves as inferior before those who we think have more knowledge than we do, or who are taller or fairer of skin. How many mestizos or Kastilas can speak Latin as well as you? You are very rich, Eustaquio, and your wealth is yours and yours alone. No one can take it from you. I will tell Jacinto that you will come shortly after sunrise.”

  Dalin had cooked the new rice and its scent filled the house. She had also fried some dried pork, and the low eating table was already set. She waited for him to tell her how his visit was; she never asked what he did. In the warm glow of the oil lamp that dangled from the rafter, her eyes came alive with curiosity. Even after the birth of the two boys, she still retained her pleasant features, the mouth that was quick to laughter, the eyes that sparkled. Her coarse blouse seemed fine only because she wore it. But her hands were not soft like the hands of Carmencita, and her legs were dark, the soles of her feet as thick as any peasant woman’s. He must banish her unspoken anxiety.

  The boys were busy with their food; Antonio, who was older, however, would turn to his father often, as if he shared his mother’s inquisitiveness.

  “There is a new lamp in the big house,” Istak said. “It has a large wick and is fed by a different kind of oil. It is very bright, ten times brighter than candles and our own lamp.”

  This was not what Dalin wanted to know.

  “He is a kindly man,” Istak finally said. With his hand he shaped a ball of rice and then dipped it in a dish with fish sauce and sliced lemon. “He is ill—and I will see him again tomorrow. And yon know, Old Woman, he wants me to have breakfast with him. This farmer Istak, having breakfast with such a noble person. I cannot believe it.”

  Dalin smiled, pleased at the honor given her husband.

  Istak seldom had Po-on on his mind now; still, there were instances out there in the soggy fields when he remembered. Memories no longer wrenched from him the ancient sorrow. His granary was always full, the bangcag and the guardian that watched over it had been kind, too; the bamboo thrived, the orange trees bore sweet fruit, vegetables grew even during the dry season—all he shared with relatives and neighbors who were too lazy to plant. He was a good provider; he was a better teacher.

  Night came swiftly to Cabugawan. After supper, Dalin cleared the low eating table, then leaned it against the palm-leaf wall. She placed the leftovers into a coconut shell which Pedro, the younger boy, took below the house for his dog, Lightning. Dalin drew up the bamboo ladder.

  The two boys slept in the kitchen while Dalin and Istak slept in the small sipi which adjoined the living room. Below the house
were the plows and the harrow, a couple of hoes, and the loom Dalin used for weaving.

  The small window would stay open till they were ready to sleep. Dalin had closed the other windows and slung a pole across them so that they could not be opened from the outside. The two carabaos and a calf were in their corral by the granary; there had been some cattle rustling in Carmay and Sipnget, but none so far in Cabugawan. Any stranger wandering in the neighborhood would be announced by the barking of dogs. One rainy night, a howling roused Dalin from sleep. She gripped the arm of her husband, who was then wide awake, too. He crept to a crack in the buri wall and peered outside to see shadows moving toward the corral. He opened the small window slowly. He kept a basket of stones ready for such a time. He started pitching with all his strength at the forms in the dark. Thuds, a scream of pain, men rushing, and soon the shouts of neighbors who had also been wakened. Not one of the carabaos in the village was taken. How would it be if the rustlers had guns? So much uncertainty and violence threatened them now, and those who plundered the countryside often did so in the name of the revolution.

  Again, the thought came swiftly—if only he and his family could flee to some deeper forest where they could clear and work the land without being badgered by other men. This was what so many had done—the fugitives from Spanish forced labor and the lash, the mal vivir, who had challenged the wilderness or sought community with the mountain peoples—the Aetas, the Balogas, the Bagos—and became one with them. He could do this with confidence born out of the sweat, the agony of having tried. He knew how to pit his intelligence against animals, even against some of nature’s whims. In fact, nature was no enemy but a friend. There was tight kinship here, all his neighbors shared with him this beginning. Would they all be driven away again and be estranged from one another? Everywhere there was no peace such as he might have found had he become a priest. And again, old Padre Jose came to mind.

  Time had dulled Istak’s earlier enthusiasms, and even his preoccupation with faith and liturgy now seemed a precious memory. How was it ever possible for him to believe in the seeming omnipotence of prayer? Of Padre Jose’s missionary courage? Did he delude himself in believing completely what he had learned in the sacristy? It was what he learned from there, after all, which had made him what he was. Would it have been better if he had had the open mind to accept all there was to accept, even the unexplainable such as those things which he witnessed? There were those aspects of living that need not be questioned anymore, the futility of it all, the dying, this night that covered the land, those distant stars that Galileo was troubled about.