Dumalaw
si Rizal
Copyright 2003 by Elizabeth Medina.
All Rights Reserved.
When he heard the knock on the door Butch
Cojuangco called out, “Come in!” without looking away from the HD set that he
was watching the DVD movie “Jose Rizal” on.
Later he realized how odd it had been.
A knock -- not the doorbell ringing.
He reached for the door remote and pressed a button to release the lock.
A man walked in,
saying “Discúlpeme usted…” then added, “Buenas tardes, amigo… me
puede decir por favor, ¿si acaso estoy en el Hotel Oriente?” [1]
Butch, his eyes still fixed on the TV
screen, thought he had heard something in … Spanish? He then looked in the direction of the door
and saw him. A rather short man in a
dark suit, a black bowler hat in his hand.
His hair was parted on one side and the neatly-combed, thick black hair
waved above his right temple. He wore a brief mustache. The features were
regular and pleasing. The eyes had a
deep, serious expression. Much later,
when Butch looked back on the bizarre encounter with all the care he could
muster, he would realize his visitor hadn’t been quite as calm as he, Butch, initially
assumed.
“¿Habla usted castellano?” the stranger asked.
Butch sat up on the sofa where he had been
half reclined. He understood that the
man was speaking to him in Spanish, and took in his odd-looking hat,
odd-looking suit. Automatically he
answered in English.
“Who are you?” he answered, somewhat rudely, because he was
surprised. Where could the man have come
from? He, Butch, was in his condominium
in Bonifacio Village. There was short
circuit television downstairs, in all the hallways. A concierge did not allow people in whom he
didn’t know unless they identified themselves first.
“Good afternoon,” the man replied in
clearly articulated English. “My name is
Dr. Rizal -- José Rizal Mercado, at your
service. I seem to have lost my way…”
Butch heard what he said but it did not
quite register. “I’m sorry -- who?” he
asked again. José who? A strange name: Ree-TAL. Only much later
would he realize that it was “Rizal” pronounced in Castilian. All his life he
had heard it in English, the “Ri” pronounced with the soft “r” and the elegant-sounding
“zahl” at the end, “Reeh-Zahl.”
Not the way he said it – the rolling “r” and the sharp, cutting “th”
at the end. Butch suddenly remembered his Spanish classes all those years ago.
“Dr. José Rizal Mercado,” and the man
walked up to him until he was about three feet away, his right hand extended,
bowler hat in his left.
Butch hurriedly got up and held out his
hand. The man’s shake was firm but his
hand felt cold. Butch looked at “Dr.
Rizal’s” face. The skin was that of a brown-complexioned
man who had not been out in the sun for a long time, but he looked very
healthy, and young.
“Is this a joke? Are you an actor?” Butch
asked.
“I am exceedingly sorry to disturb you,
kind sir. I see you are occupied…” and
he looked at the TV and the images on it.
It was the scene of Leonor Rivera in the parlor of her house, receiving
young José, who was courting her.
“Who are you? Is this a practical joke? Did my friends put you up to this?” Butch insisted.
“I’m very sorry indeed, I believe there has
been some misunderstanding,” the man who introduced himself as Dr. Rizal
replied. His voice was firm, of a
pleasing timber, but mild. He spoke a
strongly-accented British English, sometimes emphasizing his vowels like a
Tagalog speaker: Also like a Tagalog,
his English was exaggeratedly articulated as if he had learned it in
school. It wasn’t modern – meaning it
wasn’t American.
He continued.
“I arrived in Manila this morning from
overseas, went out of my hotel for a stroll along the Luneta after lunch, and
have just returned. However, this is not
my hotel – Hotel Oriente, on Calle
Espronceda, Intramuros, is it?”
“You bet it isn’t! This isn’t even Manila!” Suddenly a shiver ran down Butch’s
spine. “Oh my God,” he said to himself. “What the hell is happening? Is this a ghost in front of me?!” His face turned pale and his eyes opened wide
as if they would pop out. He looked
behind him at the TV, then back at the man, and putting out his hands as if he
might fall down, started backing up diagonally to the right, bare feet feeling
their way across the plush beige carpet of his living and dining room, till the
bookcase lining the wall behind the TV stopped his retreat. He leaned against it, staring rudely at the
unexpected visitor.
The man who said he was Dr. Rizal also went
through a change of expression. His face
went blank for a moment and his right hand rose and reached for the pocket on
the left side of his vest, that a gold chain looped into. He drew out a small wooden box, and looking
down at it, pressed a dark metal button on its side and out popped a small
dial, a watch.
“It can’t be,” he said, “my watch reads
five o’clock, but…” he looked beyond Butch at the large glass doors that led
out to a balcony, beyond which the sky above Makati was already dark and lit up
with lights, of homes, of streets – “it is already night!” His forehead furrowed and his face took on an
expression of alarm.
When he saw the man look at his watch Butch
looked at his own in a reflex action and saw that it was just a few seconds
past 8:00 in the evening.
“Sino ka!?” [Who are you?] Butch yelled at him, because he was now very
frightened. His body coiled and his
hands grabbed the polished dark wood of the bookcase behind him as if to steady
himself.
The man’s face softened when he heard the
words in Tagalog and said, holding out his right arm in a gentle
gesture, “Maginoo, cong ano man ang inyong pangalan, ipagpaumanhin at huwag
matacot, sapagka’t aco rin ay nalilito’t lubos na nababagabag.” [2]
Then he spoke again, this time in English,
seeming to detect the young man’s state of near panic and the puzzlement on
Butch’s face when he heard the phrases in old Tagalog. He spoke gently as though to reassure him,
saying, once again: “My name is Dr. José Rizal. It would seem that something
irregular and anomalous is happening at present. Please accept my apologies and do not
fear. I mean you no harm, upon my
honour.”
Butch noted that his English was really
strange – it sounded stilted and false, as if he were reading from a script in
a play, but he delivered his lines with complete naturalness, as if he spoke
that way all time.
Finally Butch realized that it was no
practical joke, and the man was not a robber.
Could he be some kind of lunatic?
He walked over to the intercom and buzzed the concierge. A voice answered,
“Yes sir?”
“Jaime, sino ang pinapasok ninyo na
lalaking naka-amerkanang itim at may dalang sombrero?”
“Wala po
kaming pinapasok, ser.”
“Ano?
Eh di sino itong lalaking nakatayo sa living room ko?”
Butch looked at the man, who was quietly
standing there and slowly looking around with an expression on his face that
seemed a mix of surprise and…the faintest hint of amusement.
“Huwag na, okey lang,” [4]
and he let go of the speaker button. He
turned to “Dr. Rizal”.
The “doctor” was now staring at the
television.
“¡Qué maravilla!” he exclaimed softly.
“It’s called ‘television’,” Butch said,
watching him cautiously and closely observing his every reaction.
Dr. Rizal turned to Butch with happy
amazement. “Teh-leh-VEE-shon?” Then he was silent awhile, as if lost in
thought, then asked, “Is it a type of
reception apparatus?”
“Basically, yes.”
Dr. Rizal asked him the inevitable next
question.
“When was such an apparatus invented?”
“A long way back, before it was ever sold
to ordinary people like me. In 1922,
more or less.”
“1922! ¡Madre mía! And what year is
this?”
Butch looked at him steadily as he
answered.
“2003.
The 21st century.”
The man in the dark suit, the false collar
over an immaculate white shirt, light blue silk tie with gold tiepin in the
shape of a bee, visibly flinched when he heard the words. But he bounced back immediately. He had amazing aplomb, poise. A cool dude.
“Así es que…he
viajado al futuro,” he said in a low voice.[5]
“I don’t understand Spanish,” Butch told
him.
“Ah, please excuse my rudeness. You speak English. So…
May I sit down, please?” Dr. Rizal asked.
“Of course,” Butch gestured awkwardly to
the sofa that was cluttered with the Sunday newspaper and DVD jewel cases, then
rushed forward. “Please,” he added,
after clearing away the mess.
Rizal sat down on one end of the huge
sofa. He looked at the movie playing out
on the screen. Now it was the scene in
which the boy Rizal cried out as the Guardia Civil escorted his arrested mother
out of their house.
“What is this story in images that you are
watching, Mr. ….”
“My name is Butch Cojuangco…” Suddenly he
felt he should be more formal, and added, “Fernando Cojuangco, but they call me
Butch.”
“Bootch,” Rizal said, somewhat uncertainly.
“Yes, this is what we call a ‘movie’ – it’s
about you.”
Goddamn, I’ve gone mad, Butch said to
himself. But Jaime answered the
intercom! And nothing had changed. But suddenly this personage had appeared who
said he was Jose Rizal. Butch began to
observe him with total attention. He did
not look like most of the representations that circulated in books and the
press. He was handsomer, though he did
not have a “pretty” face; he had the rather broad, Malay nose, but he had very
regular features, a squarish, determined-looking set in the jaw, and a very
intelligent look in his eyes. His mouth
was well shaped and his teeth, when he smiled, were even and white. He held himself erect, but not in a tense
way. Well, after all, the man was an
athlete, Butch said to himself. You
could tell he was comfortable in his body, with who he was. The Filipino Superman.
Butch decided to play along with the
bizarre thing that had happened, on any Sunday in his life when he was as
usual, bored, and about to plunge back into the tense working routine of
Monday. He had put on the movie Jose
Rizal, one he had seen at least five times, but he had been paying more
attention to it this time than usual. He
decided to ask the authority about it.
He had his doubts.
“About my person?” Rizal asked, and seemed
amused. “Why would anyone go to the
bother?”
“You’re the most important Filipino who
ever lived,” Butch answered earnestly…then he realized Rizal was joking. He thought, “Does he even know he died?” He would have to be very careful. If they had met because a time warp
catapulted Rizal into the future, he, Butch, had a responsibility not to tamper
with Rizal’s consciousness. He was no
Rizal scholar, but he remembered a few things about the national hero. Well, that he died. Obviously, this Rizal hadn’t died yet. He looked as real and alive as he, Butch,
did. Except that his hand had felt cold…
“Am I indeed? Many Filipinos would tell you otherwise,” he
responded, and the merest hint of sadness flitted across his face. “You are a Filipino, are you not? I am in my country, las Islas Filipinas,
¿no es verdad? Ah, pardon me, you
said that you did not understand Spanish!”
“Please, no problem, I can understand some
Spanish, yes, yes, you are in the Philippines…in Filipinas,” Butch added
quickly.
“Might I have a beverage to drink, if you
would be so kind?”
“Oh, surely, what would you like….ah,
Coke? No, you don’t know what Coke
is…Ah…coffee? Tea?” Of course, this Englishman-sounding Filipino
would be used to drinking tea, or coffee.
“Yes, thank you very kindly, a cup of tea
would be most welcome, especially as I feel rather cold.”
“For awhile, please,” Butch said, gesturing
with his hands as he headed for the kitchen, as if to beg Rizal to stay there,
and not go away.
….
As he nervously prepared a cup of tea as
fast as he could, Butch’s mind buzzed as he tried to figure out how to deal
with the strangest, most bizarre event of his life. Was he dreaming? Was this a nightmare? Some kind of black magic that someone had
hired someone else to practice as revenge against him? He was amazed at himself, that he could even
think such a thought! He was a
postmodern dude, he wasn’t even interested in the past, in genealogy, any of
those things! He was IT manager for his
family’s investment firm – really a glorified computer nerd. He never bought books on history – in fact,
he stayed away from them because they were so boring. They were written by people who seemed to
have trouble saying anything straight out, and he was convinced it was because
they had nothing to say. Philippine
history was a bore. It was the Rizal
movie that piqued his interest in Rizal again, because after all, the Noli
was a fun book! It was fashionable to
ignore everything connected to history these days, but he wasn’t one of those
texting-crazed young kids, oblivious to anything but their toys and
parties. He was an old guy of 33. Wanting to have space just to be. Not quite ready to get married and settle
down. He’d do it eventually, but it
would surely focus the family’s attention on him, which would mean a whole new
level of pressure – and what he wanted and needed for a little longer, with all
his soul, was simply to be left alone.
He put a teacup with water inside the
microwave and hunted around for some decent tea. He found some Oolong, thank God, and green
tea. Poking his head around the corner
toward the living room – where he saw “Rizal” absorbed by the movie – he called
out,
“Sr. Rizal – Would you like oolong, or
green tea?”
“Oolong tea, please, thank you.”
He thought: this guy is English so I’d
better bring him some milk too. And
sugar.
He brought out the cup of tea, sugar and
milk on a tray. Rizal saw him and
smiled, looked back at the TV screen then looked away to speak to him.
“Thank you, yes, a bit of milk and sugar
please.”
Butch sat down on the sofa a short distance
from Rizal, placed the tray on top of the coffee table, put one teaspoon of
sugar and a drop of milk in it, and handed the cup on a saucer to Rizal.
“Would you like anything else? Crackers?
Biscuits?”
“No, thank you,” he answered gravely. Then,
“This ‘moo-vee’ as you call it, tells about
my person?”
“Yes.”
“It seems that they have mixed up my
biography with my books.”
“Yes, the director did that.”
“Why?
It is rather confusing, is it not?”
“Well, yes, but I suppose it was an
artistic device.”
“Ah, yes, a dramatic artifice.”
“Exactly.”
“But…now I am watching myself in prison,
and it seems I am with my legal counselor.”
Gulp!
He was going to see himself executed!
“Excuse me, Sr. Rizal, but I must turn this
off now.” And Butch took the remote and
turned the TV off.
Rizal looked at the remote with
surprise. “¡Formidable!” he exclaimed.
“Con permiso,” he said, and took the remote from Butch’s
hand.
“How did you do that?”
Butch showed him, and he began to switch
the TV on and off. Then Butch showed him
how to turn off the movie and switch to the channels. But Rizal seemed to lose interest suddenly
and asked,
“What is the present situation of my – our
– country?”
“Do you really want to know?” Butch
replied. “No, you don’t want to
know. I don’t want to be the one to tell
you.”
“So,” Rizal said, in a low voice. “Everything I saw and tried to warn them
against has come true, has it not.”
“I don’t know what you saw,” Butch
answered.
“May I speak to you with complete
frankness?” Rizal asked. He put down his
cup of tea and sitting on the edge of the sofa turned his body toward Butch.
“Go ahead.
What I know is a lot worse than anything you can tell me.”
“This moo-vee is very strange. Seeing it, I have a queer feeling that there
is a great deal of ignorance and confusion in people’s minds.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I have not seen all of it. Perhaps I should see it completely before I
confirm my intuition.”
Butch didn’t want him to watch his own
future execution.
“Don’t worry, I know I will die,” he said,
as if he had heard Butch speak aloud.
Butch looked at him in amazement. “Can you read my thoughts?”
“It isn’t difficult, my friend. I know what will happen to me. Though I had always clung to the hope that my
worst fears would be proven false.”
“But how can you tell that just from seeing
a little bit of a movie?” Butch asked.
Rizal answered, “It is merely an intuition,
but…” he added, though seemingly with
reluctance to reveal something so intimate, “…I have been cursed -- or blessed
-- with a very strong one.”
Suddenly he asked Butch, out of the blue,
“Are you fond of reading literature, poetry?”
“I used to read literature as a kid because
I had to. American literature. And poetry – well, some Tagalog, we had to
read Plorante at Laura in high school, and of course, American poetry.”
“You don’t study any other kind of
literature? No Spanish literature? French?
English?”
“No, unless you seek it out on your own.”
“Ah, I see…and you have attended the
university, have you not?”
“Yes, I studied Economics, then Computers.”
“Com-pi-YU-ters?”
“They’re machines with circuits that do
this,” he punched the buttons on the remote – “And just about everything today
uses computers.”
“Do women die of childbirth?”
“No, not anymore, unless they are way out
in the boondocks where there are no doctors.”
“Right.”
“The word is now an English word?”
“Yes. The Americans adopted it.”[7]
“Ah…”
He looked past Butch as if he had seen something far away. “Was there great suffering? Under the Americans, I mean.”
“Suffering?
No! The Americans modernized the
Philippines! They were our saviors.”
Rizal flashed a look at him.
“What do you mean by ‘saviors’ – the
Americans saved Filipinas?”
“Oh, sorry – I mean the Americans saved the
Philippines from the Japanese invasion during World War II. --- That was in 1945,” he added, realizing
that Rizal had no idea.
“But that was in 1945. What happened before? Was Filipinas still under Spain? Did Japan invade Filipinas and the United
States saved her because Spain was unable?”
“Nooo….the United States became our rulers
after Spain.” Then, because he didn’t
want to bring it up but had to say something, he explained, “It happened at the
beginning of the 20th century.”
“I see.
And the Tagalog Revolt?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was there no armed revolution by the
Tagalogs?”
“Yes there was.” Butch was silent and looked down at the
carpet. “It didn’t work. Just like you said in El Filibusterismo.”
“Therefore
Filipinas did not liberate herself.”
“Well yes, she
did!” Butch protested. “It just happened a bit later – in 1946 we
were declared a Republic by the United States!
We were the first democracy in Asia!”
Rizal stared at
him, aghast. His entire body went rigid.
Butch had expected him to be pleased, and was startled by the reaction.
But Rizal did
not explain. He realized that Butch had
not expected his reaction and recovered his calm.
“And this is why
you speak English today?”
“Exactly.”
“What about
Spanish? It was forgotten?”
“Oh, the
Filipinos never spoke Spanish.”
This time Rizal
became livid. He stood up suddenly,
looking down at Butch with anger in his eyes.
Suddenly he was no longer short, he towered above Butch, who realized
that he had committed some kind of serious faux pas.
Butch held out
his hands in a gesture to defend himself from Rizal’s ire, or to calm him down.
“But this is
what my family told me, what my teachers taught me. It’s what our historians, journalists say –
everybody says it!”
“And your
grandparents? Did they not speak
Spanish? What did they tell you?”
“My
grandparents? Well, my mother spoke a
little Spanish, her parents spoke Spanish.
So did my father’s grandfather.
But you know, we were always told that only 6% of the Filipinos spoke
Spanish….” Then he added something he
had never really given much thought to.
“My grandparents never spoke of the past.”
Rizal, who had
been pacing on the plush beige carpet of the spacious living room, now stopped
and turned to Butch. His eyes glittered like polished black marble.
“Do you know
that the friars must be very happy now?”
Rizal told him with bitter irony in his voice.
Then he added,
“And the Church? Tell me, is the Church
still all-powerful in this land?”
Butch was
silent.
“What about the
rich? Ah – don’t tell me, there is no
need. If all of you speak English today,
and you only study –“
Butch
interrupted him – “But we speak Tagalog -- English is only our official
language for communications with the outside world, we are giving emphasis to
Tagalog now! Well, it’s actually Tagalog,
but now it’s called ‘Filipino’.”
Rizal
smiled. “So now a Filipino, who is an
inhabitant of Filipinas, has a national
language that is also called Filipino?
But does this mean then that the other languages are not deserving of
the term ‘Filipino’? Why the insistence
on one dominant language, when we have so many?
Language is wealth, and if you imply by this that the Filipino only has
one true national language, you are advocating cultural
impoverishment! Aside from this, I know
that the other regions with their languages must take exception to such a
forcing – for, with all due respect, it reeks of favoritism. Oh la la, ça va
mal, ça va très mal... ”[9]
As he said this
he approached the bookcase and began to survey the titles there, quickly. He turned to Butch and asked:
“Despite what
you say, you do not seem to have any books here in Tagalog -- or “Filipino” as
you call it -- or in any other
language. All I see are books in
English.”
“There are
newspapers, movies, radio shows in Taga – I mean, Filipino.”
“And do you read
those newspapers?” He looked at the pile of papers – “Is that newspaper in -- a pause --
‘Filipino’?”
“No.”
Rizal walked
slowly back until he stood in front of Butch.
“Do you believe
that I wrote my books only for the Spaniards?”
“I don’t know,
Lolo[10]
José,” Butch replied. For some inexplicable reason, his eyes started to
tear. There was something in the
presence of the man that moved him, that made him feel different. He began to sense things that his rational mind
could not, could never compute. “Lolo
José” jumped out of his mouth, he did not know where from.
He volunteered
more information that he thought Rizal would approve.
“The Filipinos still read Noli Me Tangere
and El Filibusterismo, Lolo.”
“In Spanish? In ‘Filipino’? Or only in English?” he asked bitterly.
“Lolo…a famous
writer who is known as a nationalist, once wrote in a news column that you
would have favored the change of language to English, because you spoke
English.”
“¡Qué
ridiculez! Yes, indeed I speak
English – but I would never consent to speak English on the condition that I
abjure Spanish! Ah! So the persecutors are alive and well in
Filipinas, I see! The persecutors of
culture and education!”
“But Lolo José,
we hated the Spanish, and we hated the arrogant, rich Spanish mestizos! Look at me!”
-- and Butch found himself saying things he had never said to anyone in
his life – “I am Chinese!! What’s worse,
I have the name of Chinese billionaires and people think I am an oligarch, but
I’m not. I reject the belief that
Chinese Filipinos are Chinese first and last!
I don’t want to continue that! I
am a Filipino! But even my fellow Filipinos discriminate against me, even if
they don’t say it to my face. Is it my
fault that I was born to a well-off Chinese family? We worked hard to become who we are, to have
what we have!”
Butch stopped
speaking abruptly, somewhat shocked at his own outburst. He had noticed how Rizal, as he spoke, had
scanned his body with his gaze, slowly and calmly. For a long moment, there was silence between
the two men. Rizal’s habitual tone of
tranquilness had returned, and Butch quickly felt it come over him as well. There was now a detached kindness in Rizal’s
eyes.
“It is not your
fault,” he said slowly, with tiredness in his voice. “However, there is still an historical debt
to pay. The Chinese in my time do not
love anything but themselves. And
because they do not love, they are not loved.
I have thought it over many times, why these conflictive relationships
amongst the many ethnic groups plague my land…and I have reached one conclusion
only: because we must all learn that
conflict and contempt can only destroy us and this wondrous Motherland.”
Butch began to
cry. Tears rolled own his cheeks and he
was helpless to stop them. “I am sorry,
Lolo José. Please forgive me. Please forgive my parents…my grandparents.”
Rizal remained
standing, looking down at Butch, who sat upright on the sofa and had covered
his face with both hands.
“Sosiéguese muchacho. Tranquilo. Let me ask you this: if I did not speak English, could you talk to
me now? Could we have this conversation
in Tagalog, for example?”
Butch had wiped
his eyes with Rizal’s paper napkin and looked up with a sheepish smile.
“No, Lolo. My Tagalog sucks. I only speak Taglish.”
Rizal’s face
went blank and registered puzzlement.
“Tag-LEESH? ¿Qué es eso?”
“It’s a mixture
of Tagalog and English, Lolo.” Butch
looked down as he spoke.
“Raise your
head. Look at me when you speak to me, hijo.”
Rizal walked
over to a chair by the dining room set, took it over to where Butch was sitting
on the sofa and sat down on it, his legs circling the backrest.
Calmly, he
said: “Spanish is your language. Much more than English.”
Butch gave a
start, his eyes wide open with surprise and something of indignation.
“But it’s the
language of the oppressors, Lolo, this is what we were and are still taught in
school.”
“Oppressors
oppress without any need of speaking a special language for oppressing
anyone. You with your com-piYU-ters –
where do these com-piYU-ters come from?
I imagine they have content – what is that content? Who decides what that content will be? These MOO-vees, this ridiculous story of my
life and my novels – who decided to tell that story in such a way that even I
cannot understand? It is clear to me,
even as I sit here, that these marvelous machines have tricks, they play tricks
on the mind. The language they speak in
is the least of concerns. One knows when
one is lied to. And if one no longer
knows, then one has been taught not to know the difference between lies and
truth.”
Butch got an
idea, and excitement lit up his face.
“Lolo, would you
go to the TV station with me to talk to the Filipinos tomorrow?”
His rational
mind had suddenly intruded in on the spell with a practical consideration. He had to do something to somehow make it
possible to share what was happening here with others.
“TV
station? What is that?” Rizal asked.
Another unknown term of this fascinating future world.
Butch waved his
arms about, enthused.
“So that you
could come out in that big box and talk to all the Filipinos watching at that
moment, and tell them the things I have learned from you tonight.”
Rizal glanced at
the TV and was silent. Then he answered,
to Butch’s disappointment, “I cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because you
must do it. This is your time, not
mine. I must go back and fulfill my
part.”
Brushing aside
his disappointment – though at the same time Butch knew such a thing could only
happen in a fairy tale, besides which, it would surely upset his entire life
-- Can you imagine what the family
would think? It would violate the
iron-clad law of the Chinese Filipino colony: Invisibility. – he found another burning question and
struck.
“How did you
arrive here, Lolo? By what magic?”
Rizal was silent
for a long moment before he replied.
“I remember that
I went out for a stroll to the Luneta…I do not know what Intramuros looks like
today, or the Luneta…I expect there have been many new edifications…”
“Intramuros was
carpet bombed by the Americans in 1945, Lolo.”
“Dios mío. Carpet-bombed. I think I can see what that means in my
imagination. And what of La Hermita,
Tondo, Binondo?”
“Not as
badly. But you wouldn’t recognize any of
those places today.”
Rizal looked
down and continued speaking, as if describing something from long memory:
“Outside the
walls of Intramuros there is Luneta, el Campo de Bagunbayan, and the Malecón
where people promenade on foot, on horseback or in carriages, by the sea, along
the beach. Manila is one of the
loveliest cities in the Orient, much lovelier than Singapore or Hong Kong. Intramuros is somewhat crowded and so many buildings
and lack of greenery make it unpleasant in the hot season. But it has many fine
churches with spires, old houses, schools, cafés and hotels. And the río Pasig is a beautiful river
where the people still fish and swim.”
“It’s filthy
today, the water is black and pestilential.
Though there have been efforts to clean it up, dredge it…”
“How sad that
the Filipinos have not known how to take care of their own treasures.”
“Even I can
remember that as a boy, Manila was much more beautiful than today.”
Butch realized
that he had interrupted Rizal and added, “Please go on, Lolo. What do you remember...”
“I was walking
along the Malecón, it was a lovely afternoon and there were only a few
carriages and strollers about. An old
woman suddenly appeared, it seemed from nowhere, she appeared to be one of
those street vendors that are very common all over Manila and in every city,
town and village, women who walk about with a folded cloth on their heads and a
basket under their arm. I thought that
she was perhaps selling cakes, cuchintá or poto. She had a
pleasant expression, her clothing was clean and decent, and she was walking
toward me from the opposite direction.
That is, she was walking toward the sea; I was returning to my
hotel. As we passed each other, she
suddenly said in a low voice within my hearing, as though addressing me but not
daring to speak directly, “¡Dios le bendiga, Dios se lo pague!” This means:
May God bless and repay you! And
at one and the same moment, she did something quite curious: she knelt beside me, covered her head with
the cloth, and took something out of the basket and offered it to me with both
hands, as she kept her eyes to the ground.
“I told her,
‘Rise, elder sister,’” but she merely held up her hands, and I understood it
was an offering. I then saw in her
cupped palms a tiny booklet and I recognized it – it was an anting-anting,
such as the tulisanes are known to wear around their necks inside a tiny
cloth bag. Inside such booklets are prayers in garbled Latin and gibberish to
guard against all manner of dangers – against poisonous snakebites, the bullets
of the Guardia Civil, unfaithful women, ill-intentioned neighbors, and so
on. She was offering me the amulet.”
Butch was no
longer in Makati City in 2003. He was on
the Malecón, watching an old woman kneel before a Hispanic-Filipino gentleman –
his hero, the hero of all Filipinos.
Rizal
continued.
“I then said to
her, ‘Bakit po ninyo ibinibigay ito sa aquin?’ [11]
And I looked around to see if there might be a Guardia Civil patrol in the
vicinity, or even curious passersby, but we were strangely alone. She said that she recognized me, because she
had seen me in Calamba, where she had relatives. And that all the people feared for my safety
because it was said that the friars were taking revenge against all my family,
and especially against me.
“Naturally to
reassure her I told her, ‘No need to give me this, kind older sister, I am
safe.’ But she would not move. ‘Take it, my son,’ she said, ‘On page 103 you
will find a prayer to see the future of those you love.’
“This of course
opened up my curiosity. I have studied
native Filipino superstitions at some depth, as well as the work of healers and
sorcerers. My curiosity got the better
of me, and besides, such anting-anting are extremely rare. I pretended to be amused and accepted her
offering, also so that we should not call attention and perhaps get in trouble
– especially the old lady. Besides
which, I suspected that I was being followed.
“And so I took
the booklet and dropped it in my coat pocket.”
At that moment
he seemed to remember it was there and he patted his pockets. He found something in the left one. It was the booklet!
Rizal handed it
to Butch. It was the size of a large
scapular and quite thick, its pages thin bluish paper with tiny, neat writing
in black ink. Butch opened the miniature
pages and saw strange drawings and writing in a mixture that looked like Latin
and native language. Butch opened it at
random and read:
b R G t
l b x t
______
I l c g
s l b s
_ _ _ _ _
Sanen bog ca lot nitan
biniagan say ngaranto
Sionto sia
Say Dasalen 3 Pdre
Nuestro Saquey a siac
nebos trebolacionis
Amin
“It’s nonsense,”
Butch said.
“She had told me
to read the prayer on page 103 to see the future of my loved ones. I put the booklet in my pocket and of a
sudden -- she was gone. I walked back to
Hotel Oriente, turning over the odd encounter in my mind, and once I was inside
the lobby and had climbed the stairs to the second floor where my rooms were, I
felt safe enough to take the booklet out of my pocket. Curiosity did me in – I opened it to page 103
just as I reached the door to my room.
And that is all I remember.
Suddenly I was in front of that door.”
He pointed to the door to Butch’s apartment.
“I see. I don’t
dare look at page 103,” Butch said. He
gave Rizal back the booklet, and it was returned to the coat pocket.
“I imagine there
is only a certain amount of time I shall be here,” Rizal said.
At the mention
of time, Butch once again looked at his watch in a reflex action, and got a
shock: It was two thirty in the
morning! He looked back at Rizal as he
quickly asked:
“You mean,
you’ll be going back again at some point….?”
The question was
left hanging in mid-air. Butch was
alone.
“Putangina![12]
Butch shot up from the sofa like a pebble triggered by a slingshot, crying out
in wrenching distress.
He was gone!
Butch ran
through the entire apartment to see whether Lolo José hadn’t just materialized
in some other room. He was nowhere.
With a heavy
step and in a daze, Butch walked back to the living room.
Suddenly a
thought flitted into his mind and he looked at the sofa.
The bowler hat
was still there, like a visiting card.
--- End ---
[2] Kind Sir, whatever your name may be, please accept my apologies and do
not fear, for I am equally confused and perturbed.
[3] -Jaime, who did you let in, a man in a black suit carrying a hat?
-We didn’t let anybody in, Sir.
-What? Then who is this man
standing in my living room?
-We don’t know, Sir – would
you like us to call Security?
[4] No, it’s alright.
[5] I’ve traveled to the future.
[6] In Tagalog, means “mountain”; in English, rough country. Author’s Note.
[7] During the Fil-American guerrilla war, 1898-1902. AN
[10] Lolo: Tagalog for
‘Grandfather”; in Spanish: ‘Tata’.
[11] Why are you giving me this?
[12] Son of a bitch!
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