Ilustrado Part 4

Awaiting the hour of my appointment with Lena, I walked among the exhibits, endeared and saddened the way one is sometimes by the museums of our country: the typewritten display notes often misspelled and fastened with by-now brittle and peeling cellophane tape; old photographs and paintings succ.u.mbing to the slow but constant a.s.sault of moisture; dioramas and taxidermy specimens well on their way to manginess; the Plexiglas donation box thinly lined with the lowest denomination of coins and plastic straws and Juicy Fruit wrappers. I overheard the ancient curator giving a tour to a pair of odorous blond backpackers; his English was proper and colonial, with such a fresh earnestness it was as if he were presenting memories entirely his own. The backpackers seemed to be having a hard time following him.

Now, on the way to Swanee, the Salvadors' estate, the long roads leading to the haciendas, lined claustrophobically with tall green cane, offer glimpses of the distant sea. When pa.s.sing a crossroads I turn my head and follow, briefly, until it swings away as we move on, the long green corridor ending in two swatches of different blues.

Cristo arrived at the New Year's party unexpectedly, inciting among his old friends quite a commotion, with several of them abandoning the dancing to come shake his hand. It had been several years-five, to be precise-though he was surprised that his peers had changed only incrementally. Only the styles of their mustaches, beards, and attire altered, keeping with the latest European vogue. After the fanfare of his welcome subsided, his friends returned to their circles, and Cristo stepped outside onto the porch.

The moon has already risen. Every night for forty nights he watched it waning then waxing over the deck of his ship, and now it is becoming whole again. Bigger, fuller, than it had ever been in Madrid. The air here is much cooler than it had been in Manila, as if the walls and streets of the capital retained the warmth of days, or imbibed the heat of the rumors of revolution he'd heard spoken in private places. Here, at home in Bacolod, the evening seems to breathe more freely. Or perhaps, he considers with a smile, I am just succ.u.mbing to the nostalgia of arriving. He lights his pipe.

Only after he has stoked it and it burns well does he realize he is not alone on the porch. In the darkness of the far corner, beside a large potted plant, he sees three figures huddled, whispering emphatically. He considers returning inside before they notice him, but the shadows abruptly adjourn their furtive congress and face him. One, then two, then all three of them call out his name, joyfully. The conspirators emerge from the gloom, large smiles on their faces, and grab and shake his arms and slap him across the back, welcoming him home and wishing him a prosperous 1895. They are his old, dear friends, Aniceto Lacson, Juan Araneta, and Martin Claparols, the three laughing out loud, the way one does when embarra.s.sed suddenly, as if hiding something ignominious.

-from The Enlightened The Enlightened (page 122), by Crispin Salvador (page 122), by Crispin Salvador *

In any of the predestinations of Fate there exists complex, unexplored dramas. Each of us is born into trouble ... even freedom resulting from material security creates a vacuum, a Fourth Hunger, that must be filled, by either opportunities taken or ennui, or any combination of distraction, faith, success, neuroses, or social/familial dysfunction. Pity not the elite, but do not condemn them all. It is not in the interest of any progressive-minded citizen ... Vilification, by its definition, creates an antagonistic struggle, an us-versus-them mentality, that throws us all into a senseless battle-royale. The slaves of today will become the tyrants of tomorrow-the proletariat overthrows the hegemon to become the hegemon itself, only to be eventually overthrown by a proto-hegemon that will in turn lose its position. It is this dizzying cycle that keeps humanity chasing the tail it lost millennia ago ... The Alienation of the Elite is the unpolitical effect of the political. It concerns the pluto cracy's own legitimate, and sympathetically human, frustration with this downward-spiraling human condition, and not just the malaise of having.

-from the 1976 essay " "Socrates Dissatisfied," by Crispin Salvador *

The estate, dubbed Swanee by Salvador's grandparents, Cristo Patricio Salvador and Maria Clara Lupas, lies seven and a half miles from Bacolod, the major city on the island split by the provinces of Negros Occidental on the northwest and Negros Oriental on the southeast. The plantation fits snugly between Talisay and Silay and sits at the very beginning of the very first foothill that precedes Mount Mandalagan. For three generations, due to the intermittent reliability of the unsealed roads and the heavy traffic of carts drawn by water buffalo and the cane-laden trucks, the estate seemed more isolated than it does today. The beach, however, not far by horseback or bicycle on a path that leads straight from their front door, presented another world for the Salvador children-a rocky curve of white sand giving on to susurrating waves. In the summer, the water was so clear the aquatic life seemed suspended in air-galaxies of sea urchins, rainbows of anemones, clouds of fish. During the rainy season, due to runoff from the denuded mountains and foothills, the water became murky enough to present a mystery and a sense of foreboding. On every corner of Swanee, on months with the bl.u.s.tery Habagat, the air would smell of sea; and when the Amihan blew, the wind carried the scent of syrup from the Horno Mejor sugar mill.

Swanee is the center of five sugar plantations carved out by the clan after the land was sold to the elder Salvador at a rock-bottom price by Gobernadorcillo Bernardino de los Santos in January of 1890. Each of the five plots-on New Year's Day 1905 named Swanee, Kissimmee, Mamie, Clementine, and Susanna-was given to one of the five Salvador sons, though by the time Crispin was an adult two had been sold to in-laws from the Lupas clan. Atop the hill overlooking the five estates is the manor Salvador's grandfather Cristo had built entirely of coconut timber. In its courtyard is an old Spanish-era tower that served, in turn, as a lighthouse, parish belfry, hermitage, and sniper lookout. During Salvador's childhood, it was the private perch of the white-crowned patriarch, who had filled it with books, celestial charts, rifles, bird cages, and shiny bra.s.s telescopes. From there, the elder Salvador, a widower since 1925, would observe the operations of his sugar mill and his children's plantations, spending hours squinting through the eyepiece of his big reflecting scope to watch each family's comings, goings, and odd hobbies, sending unheeded instructions and baseless remonstrations by carrier pigeon. Even approaching his deathbed, Cristo insisted on managing affairs, having a quartet of burly maids (he called them "pallbearers") carry him on a cot to the mill each Monday.

-from the biography in progress, Crispin Salvador: Crispin Salvador: Eight Lives Lived, by Miguel Syjuco *

Come to think of it, I was not surprised when Crispin asked me to be his research a.s.sistant. There'd been a shift along the way. He began to address me with the Filipino familiarity "pare," the way we do old compatriots. Sometimes he was even playful with it, perverting the soft "pah-reh" by p.r.o.nouncing it as would an American GI on sh.o.r.e leave, with the hard consonants and overly elongated final syllable-"pair-ree." This sudden casualness made all the difference.

Around that time, Madison and I were speaking seriously about moving to Africa-to help build houses for Jimmy Carter's Habitat for Humanity, or work with the Peace Corps in Swaziland. It was her grand plan. She was convinced it would be to her benefit in her eventual application for a master's at the School of International and Public Affairs at Columbia University. She thought it would also serve my writing well for me to witness some, as she said, "real suffering." As if I'd not grown up in the Philippines. As if I'd not been through the slums and dying farmland on my grandparents' campaign trails. Africa, however, was a really big commitment. I didn't want to give up everything I had in New York to find myself dumped in the middle of the sub-Saharan continent after she left me for some Wagner-singing German archaeologist with a big shovel.

I knew Crispin was working on TBA TBA and I wanted to help. I gently hinted to him that I either needed a job or would have to leave New York. I of course made it clear that I much preferred to work for my country (which is what Crispin always considered writing about the Philippines to be). With a show of benevolence, he made me an offer. I accepted, even though sudden apprehension rose up inside me regarding our developing relationship-a dandy with few friends, estranged from his family, solicitous toward me, never had children. It wasn't anything overt. But why his interest? I suppose it spoke as much of my own insecurities about my abilities and personality as it did my perception of his liberal, meticulous ways. I was disappointed when he didn't let me work on and I wanted to help. I gently hinted to him that I either needed a job or would have to leave New York. I of course made it clear that I much preferred to work for my country (which is what Crispin always considered writing about the Philippines to be). With a show of benevolence, he made me an offer. I accepted, even though sudden apprehension rose up inside me regarding our developing relationship-a dandy with few friends, estranged from his family, solicitous toward me, never had children. It wasn't anything overt. But why his interest? I suppose it spoke as much of my own insecurities about my abilities and personality as it did my perception of his liberal, meticulous ways. I was disappointed when he didn't let me work on TBA TBA at all, instead relegating me to a.s.sisting in his cla.s.s work. at all, instead relegating me to a.s.sisting in his cla.s.s work.

To make Crispin aware of the boundaries of our friendship, I often spoke of Madison. About, for example, how upset she was that we weren't leaving, about her behavior after she wrote her e-mails declining the African opportunities. The hour of our planned departure to the heart of darkness had come and gone. To make it up to her I'd cooked a romantic tofurkey dinner. We ate in silence. Then, after watching the season finale of Survivor Survivor, which I'd thoughtfully taped for her on our old VHS recorder, Madison blew up. Crispin listened kindly to such stories, though he declined to offer any advice.

I eventually decided he was more avuncular than pederastic. At times he was even fatherly, which made me officially feel sorry for him. He would have been a good father. At least I think so. He seemed to understand my thirst for those obscure things that I didn't yet possess as part of me. The things that mattered in the grand scheme. You see, Grapes had always been all about the details, results, recognition. I was surprised to discover that Crispin possessed a gentle tolerance, though only after he convinced himself of his faith in you. He was kind in the way only the ungenerous can be. As we became closer, my opinion, while not usually accepted as correct, was increasingly solicited. And dogsbodying for him wasn't difficult, even if he often asked me to do tasks like shine his wingtips or trim his bonsai trees.

As the cane fields blur along the road to Swanee, my mind goes to my mother. She was born near here, and so was I. In a way, I'm like a salmon coming home to sp.a.w.n, at a point of origin so alien it feels like my birth certificate was false. But with very little imagination, I can see the sort of life she had, for Bacolod is a place of constancies. That must be rea.s.suring to those who live and die here.

My life's own only constant has been the secondhand memories of her and Dad, filed inside me like vintage postcards in a curio shop. Wish we were with you, the messages on the back would have said, scrawled in an obsolete style of longhand. What pa.s.ses for my roots are old moments I did not witness, memorialized in mirrored frames on my grandmother's baby grand piano. Mom in Venice, smoking a cigarette while leaning on the rail of a vaporetto; on that trip she'd spent too much on antique masks and she and Dad had fought-he knew he'd been vicious, and went secretly back to the shop to buy her the most expensive one. My father at a ma.s.sive rally, standing on one of those dilapidated tractors donated by U.S. aid agencies, his head back and arms spread wide like the Oblation Oblation statue at the University of the Philippines-the eve of his first election victory, a young man at the cusp of his dreams. Both my parents dancing a waltz at a wedding in the garden of an ancestral home somewhere on this island, Dad whispering something in her ear, Mom pulling him close and laughing as the crowd behind them watched-this is how I best like to remember my parents. statue at the University of the Philippines-the eve of his first election victory, a young man at the cusp of his dreams. Both my parents dancing a waltz at a wedding in the garden of an ancestral home somewhere on this island, Dad whispering something in her ear, Mom pulling him close and laughing as the crowd behind them watched-this is how I best like to remember my parents.

This place, too, is where two of Crispin's lives began. The first, his birth. The second, his independence. It was 1975, a year made for those romantic tragedies distrusted by the moneyed, loved honestly by the poor, and watched guiltily by the middle cla.s.s when seen in soap-opera melodramas: Bacolod families tottering on the brink, squabbling like dogs over a carca.s.s, suddenly renewing their faith in G.o.d, waiting for the market to right as if they were dancers looking to the sky for rain.

It's an intriguing scene: Sugar, like mountains of gold dust, filling bathtubs, ballrooms, garages, pelota courts. Junior standing at the front door, screaming that any discussion of his marital indiscretions only hurts Leonora more. Crispin turning his back, hefting his suitcase onto his shoulder and setting out toward the dusty road away from Swanee, his father having refused to let anyone drive his son to town. The windowpanes trimmed with plastic holly, a painted plywood Santa and Rudolph on the roof. Narcisito and Lena peeking like children from an upstairs window, faces twisted and wetted by their impotence. Crispin's receding figure wrinkling in the yellow heat, pausing to look one last time at his siblings, his childhood paradise, the swimming pool brimmed with sugar, the now empty doorway where n.o.body else had stood to see him off.

That's when the family started to fall to pieces.

3.

From Marcel Avellaneda's blog, "The Burley Raconteur," December 2, 2002: And the latest scuttleb.u.t.t. The President's speech yesterday to members of the Combined Military Forces at Fort Bonifacio was disrupted when twenty-six hecklers were arrested and charged with "scandal" and "alarm." They were mauled by crowds as they were brought into the precinct office, though none suffered significant injuries. Read the full story in Ricardo Roxas IV's blog, My Daily Vitamins, here here.

In other news, the President's Unanimity walk was again nixed this morning due to the unseasonal typhoon conditions. Politicians and dignitaries waited for rain to subside while photographers snapped them yawning, texting, picking their teeth, and looking at the sky. This is the twelfth Unanimity procession canceled. It has tongues wagging that while the President's national Unanimity party does include powerful lackeys and cronies, even G.o.d and Mother Nature have cast their lot with members of GLOO.

Speaking of GLOO, there has been much comment from members of the GLorious OppOsition party, particularly from Senator Nuredin Bansamoro, admonishing the wagging tongues for hyping up threats of an imminent coup. Bansamoro, looking self-a.s.sured and presidentiable, said "a coup is only likely if launched by the government as a diversionary tactic." He also said that "a house divided upon itself is like a mental patient" and "any armed conflict would further discourage Ikea from opening shop." This from a man who is alleged to have made his fortune as the mastermind behind the kidnapping fad of the last decade. Read the full insider's story in Cece Cebu's Syutukil blog. Also catch the funny, unauthorized photographs of pols milling about looking at rain clouds in Bayani-ako's Bayan Bayani Bayan Bayani.

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Confidently ascertaining the facts of Salvador's childhood is impossible. His own autobiography is famously at odds with his father's much-read reminiscences, which were serialized in 1993 in The Philippine Gazette The Philippine Gazette and later made into the PhilFirstTV Channel mini-series, and later made into the PhilFirstTV Channel mini-series, Confessions of a Statesman: The True-to-Life Story of Narciso "Junior" Salvador Confessions of a Statesman: The True-to-Life Story of Narciso "Junior" Salvador.

According to Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist and other sources, Crispin Salvador's childhood was almost entirely devoid of his father's affection, yet absolutely filled with his father's politics. He was, after all, the golden child of Junior Salvador, and before young Crispin could speak or toddle he was already branded "the future president for a future nation." In the era between the Philippine-American War and the Second World War, such effusive patriotism was not uncommon; in addition to the timeless jockeying for position and influence, there abounded, in many circles, a persistent preoccupation with independence. In those years, the young Salvador children rarely saw their father, whose position in the Philippine Legislature required his presence in Manila; his burgeoning rivalry with the fiery nationalist Respeto Reyes took all his attention. and other sources, Crispin Salvador's childhood was almost entirely devoid of his father's affection, yet absolutely filled with his father's politics. He was, after all, the golden child of Junior Salvador, and before young Crispin could speak or toddle he was already branded "the future president for a future nation." In the era between the Philippine-American War and the Second World War, such effusive patriotism was not uncommon; in addition to the timeless jockeying for position and influence, there abounded, in many circles, a persistent preoccupation with independence. In those years, the young Salvador children rarely saw their father, whose position in the Philippine Legislature required his presence in Manila; his burgeoning rivalry with the fiery nationalist Respeto Reyes took all his attention.

For Junior, the life away from his family suited his wayward nature-Manila in the 1930s, after all, was a place of energy and intrigue, a spicy stew of global influences, in which those who lobbied for independence were considered by certain cognoscenti to be fighting the n.o.ble and ever loyal fight, even as they were engaged in necessary compromise.

It was a fine time in one of the finest cities of the world. On the streets, enterprise and history vibrated together, and perspiring archetypes-businessmen, charlatans, refugees, fortune hunters-came from around the globe and thrived: Jews fleeing Europe, Germans operating a gla.s.sworks, Portuguese gamblers from Macau, Chinese coolies from Fujian province, j.a.panese laborers, Indian moneylenders, Moro imams with scraggly beards, Latin American industrialists in fine linen suits, Spanish insulares born on the islands and peninsulares born in the mother country, Dutch merchants, even the descendants of Sepoy mutineers from the two years Britain ruled our archipelago. Most brash among the immigrants were the Americans, some outrightly imperious, many well-meaning, all inspired by William McKinley's "benevolent a.s.similation"-civil servants, missionaries, teachers, soldiers, entrepreneurs, wives. Imported from the far corners of the planet were the latest practices and fashions, each unerringly seized by the locals and turned into a virtual parody by overly vigorous execution. Junior, with his talent for languages, thrived in this city. He was often spotted at the Polo or the Army and Navy clubs sporting a new hat, or photographed hobn.o.bbing with such imposing figures as General MacArthur, whom he visited often in the Manila Hotel, bearing gifts.

But when she was pregnant with Crispin, Leonora gave Junior an ultimatum: Leave his Manila mistress, a beautiful minor actress in the fledgling Philippine film industry, and spend more time in Bacolod. Otherwise Leonora would leave with the children. Whether from the impetus of love or an aversion to scandal, Junior dedicated more attention to his family in the province, and Leonora, at the start of her third trimester, took to accompanying him on his trips to Manila. As a result, after Crispin was born, his position as a "re conciliation child" forced on him intermittent bouts of-when his parents were home-suffocating attention, overstarched hand-me-down sailor suits, mollycoddling, and-when his parents were absent-liberating stretches in which to play with his siblings and spend time with his tutor and beloved gardener. Even Junior's distant att.i.tude toward his children was influenced by Leonora, who made up for her general lack of maternal warmth by hogging the kids whenever her husband was present, doting on them so sporadically it left them bewildered and forever cynical of her intentions. Indeed, Crispin's first memories were of being "a performing monkey." In Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist, he describes being made to "sit up as straight as a stone saint and recite the infernal ABC's for my father, then the prayer to Saint Crispin for Mama. More often than not, errors resulted in their disappointment in me and, of course, scoldings for my tutor and nanny and siblings-for their supposed neglect of my education."

It was the first of many incidents, however, that cracked the struggling idyll. One dry-season evening during the hottest week in memory, as the Salvador children slept, Crispin's sister, Lena, was awakened by the opening of their bedroom door. She saw the shape of her father's form outlined against the light in the hallway, and, according to her brother's account of the event, she "could hear the sobbing screams from our mother's bedroom, her doork.n.o.b rattling desperately against its lock." Lena, Salvador wrote, heard her father's breathing-"an unforgettable, savage sound"-and smelled the gin. Salvador described her as watching in both fear and relief as their father bypa.s.sed her to stand over the sleeping Narcisito. Distant down the hall, their mother banged and screamed. Then Lena saw her father "brandishing his rattan riding crop, saw it held high above his head, heard it come down repeatedly until poor Narcisito cried out for mercy, witnessed it strike again and again until our brother fell into whimpering silence."

-from the biography in progress, Crispin Salvador: Crispin Salvador: Eight Lives Lived, by Miguel Syjuco *

After my parents died, we kids were flown from a Manila polluted by tragedy to the happy, fresh air of the Vancouver airport, the grandparents we hardly knew waiting for us in Arrivals. I remember, slightly, the terror we kids had faced getting on that airplane, our awareness of its heavy fallibility all too fresh in our minds. I recall, vaguely, the grief I held on to during that seventeen-hour flight-though sometimes I feel that, in honor of my parents, its memory should be sharper. Instead, it is the happiness that followed that fills my recollections: the glow of fresh paint in the brand-new house my grandparents bought to fit us all; the breakfasts in the kitchen by the big window from where we'd watch crows gather on the telephone lines; our first exuberant encounter with snow; Granma's bedtime stories of Grapes's vast political dreams, the excitement of the rallies, his long campaigns, the glory that would one day come again; Grapes sleeping the days away to spend wakeful nights that were days somewhere else-a parallel unseen dimension we were told was still our home, though we slowly disbelieved it.

To catch up on having missed our childhoods, Grapes and Granma let us camp on the floor of their bedroom, let us skip more school than they should have. I knew my way through the darkness of their room, blacked out completely from the sun, guided by Grapes's snores or the lingering scent Granma left in bed-Oil of Olay and cigarettes. When Grapes awoke, I'd climb into bed happily, to walk on his back, or hide with him beneath the covers-soldiers in a foxhole evading the Vietcong. At night, we made bullets in the garage: still with me is the tinkle of the machine that tumbled the copper casings, the smell of lead bars and the mystery of bullet molds, the satisfaction of pressing a lead slug in place. With Granma, I read aloud till it was she who fell asleep beside me. I broke her cigarettes so that she'd quit. I imagined throwing tantrums each time I heard her fighting with Grapes; my wails would have outdone her screams and accusations of broken promises, of contrary dreams fueled both by her hunger for peace and by his frustration that he would likely die, unfulfilled, in exile. But I never had the guts to create a diversion. I didn't know yet the collateral damage of one vitality succ.u.mbing to another; even if I knew that n.o.body should see their grandmother cry.

Then we kids were driven from our warm house to the sad, damp air of the Vancouver airport as our grandparents checked in their h.o.a.rd of bags-enough to last them the months they'd be gone. Their subsequent trips were longer than the first: to see what it was like post-Marcos, to see if Grapes could return to politics, to see to the zipper business, to run in the gubernatorial election. It was always the same: from the huge, cold windows we'd wave at the airplane being towed slowly backward, wondering if Grapes and Granma could still see us from their seats. We'd wave until it took off, until it was a speck in the sky, and wave some more, just in case.

We'd return to our house on The Square, the one tour buses stopped in front of; to the home filled with gold reclining Buddhas and dark wooden furniture that smelled of polish, with a Xerox and a telex, with a room just for Grapes's suits, with a treadmill and a ma.s.sage chair and one of those contraptions that inverted Grapes for circulation and posture. His presence was more ubiquitous because of his absence. We were too busy missing him to miss our father.

My older siblings became my parents.

My eldest brother, Jesu, with his Inuit moccasins and electric guitars, taught by example the concept of cool. With him, I discovered the world beyond books. We camped in the backyard, hiked mountains, a.s.sembled a remote-control plane. It was he who held the back of my bike seat the afternoon my training wheels were removed, his arm holding me straight so that I could shoot off free for the first time.

My eldest sister, Claire, the natural mother, was used to, and therefore intent on, being everyone's favorite. I would sit with her at her dresser, watch her put on makeup, pleased when she made up my face with a fake shiner. When she giggled to her boyfriend quietly on the kitchen telephone, she made us younger ones look forward to finally being in love.

My next older brother, Mario, who wrestled with me and Jerald, was never too grown up to make believe with us at being Andre the Giant and the Iron Sheik. He'd ring me from our second phone line, pretending to be Irene Cara, making me blush until I cried. Many a morning I'd tiptoe into his room, dodging socks and tissues and tennis b.a.l.l.s, to wake him to bring me to school, knowing that later his fingers around the back of my neck would half guide me, half carry me to the bus.

My next older sister, Charlotte, the handful, impressed me with her notorious hairstyles and varsity volleyball jacket. She'd bring Jerald and me to Baskin-Robbins for pineapple sundaes, picking up her forbidden sweetheart on the way, to see him for just ten minutes. From her I learned that my life could be my own.

And of course, my baby brother, Jerald, who had me just as I had him, until I became a preteen and he was still a kid-when he saved for me the cookies he got in cla.s.s, I refused to eat them, because they were iced with clown faces and were for immature babies. Even then, we stayed best friends.

And always, the parents of us all, the succession of yayas my grandparents imported from home, who'd arrived as Pinay provincials, learned the ways of the West, then left to start the sorts of lives they'd never dared dream of: Sula, who raised each of us, who ran barefoot in the snow to carry me to the emergency room to stop my convulsions, who broke my heart by getting married; Estellita, skinny, severe, and elegant, she cared for us without knowing how to play; Juanita, who shared with us the games and songs of her still-recent childhood, whom we mocked for her accent and her foreign rhymes; the sisters Bing and Ning, equally patient, equally loving, equally underappreciated.

These were my days: gray rain; rides over Lion's Gate Bridge; sitting in the backseat, windows down, Level 42, Huey Lewis, Steve Winwood coming to us from CFOX; O-Pee-Chee hockey cards; knees burning on the Last Sorrowful Mystery of one Glory Be and Ten Hail Marys; my purple school sweater and tie; rumors of the Brothers who taught other grades molesting boys in New Brunswick or Ontario residential schools; p.i.s.sing myself at a pep rally because I was too shy to ask to go to the restroom, then claiming I'd sat on something spilled; the ice on my back and my heart in my ears and the sky in my eyes as I tried to ignore the skating teacher calling my name. Then, p.u.b.erty: the first odd hair; the unfathomable urges; the relentless turgidity; the desperate experiments against the wall or within cardboard toilet paper rolls; stealing Mario's lemon-fresh Right Guard deodorant to slick down the new fuzz in my armpits; breathlessly molesting with my eyes the perfectly drawn European girls in the Heavy Metal Heavy Metal comics Jesu kept beneath his bed; then, the discovery of release thanks to the back ma.s.sager Grapes kept plugged in beside his La-Z-Boy armchair-the glorious synchronicity of a Hitachi Magic Wand strategically applied during Madonna or Alannah Myles videos on MuchMusic. I heard my voice deepening, I saw contact lenses fitted into place, I watched a.r.s.enio Hall each night, called the New Kids on the Block rad, wore mock turtlenecks and pinned the hem of my baggy trousers, hairsprayed my hair as high as it could go, danced the Running Man and Roger Rabbit, hung out in the mall with my friends, called the New Kids on the Block hosers, went to school dances, during "Stairway to Heaven" had a chick move my hands up from her a.s.s until Page, Plant, Jones, and Bonham started rocking and she and I were forced to part and look at each other one last time before they turned on the lights. comics Jesu kept beneath his bed; then, the discovery of release thanks to the back ma.s.sager Grapes kept plugged in beside his La-Z-Boy armchair-the glorious synchronicity of a Hitachi Magic Wand strategically applied during Madonna or Alannah Myles videos on MuchMusic. I heard my voice deepening, I saw contact lenses fitted into place, I watched a.r.s.enio Hall each night, called the New Kids on the Block rad, wore mock turtlenecks and pinned the hem of my baggy trousers, hairsprayed my hair as high as it could go, danced the Running Man and Roger Rabbit, hung out in the mall with my friends, called the New Kids on the Block hosers, went to school dances, during "Stairway to Heaven" had a chick move my hands up from her a.s.s until Page, Plant, Jones, and Bonham started rocking and she and I were forced to part and look at each other one last time before they turned on the lights.

Just when things were getting good, Grapes and Granma sat us six kids down and spoke seriously. "It's time," Grapes said, "for us all to return to the Philippines."

From Crispin's 1990 short story "n.o.blesse Oblige": "Efren Del Pais is a gentleman farmer with good intentions." He willingly, if not eagerly, submits to the CARP laws, the controversial agrarian reform legislation that appropriates plots of private land to distribute among the tenants who tend them. Most landowners resist the reforms-often violently, with militias intimidating the poor farmers and local officials. The smarter landowners take to exploiting a loophole, buying back the land from tenants who can't afford its upkeep. Del Pais, however, hopes to serve as a good example. The aging haciendero, educated by Jesuits, informed by the likes of John Locke and Thomas More, sacrifices his sprawling farm, keeping for himself only the ancestral home in which he and his children were born. His wife is dead, his son moved to England, his daughters well married, and Del Pais finds fulfillment in giving "sound advice and loans with pious terms" to the tenants who have taken over his land. After all, he's known many of them most of his life. "Del Pais, in his fading years and with an eye toward his soul, puts his trust in G.o.d and man's laws."

I remember the story for two reasons. First, in the story, Crispin gives the best account of Swanee (the two balete trees by the garden, the house's narra floors "polished as if to intimidate women in skirts," the carved relief-work ceiling in the dining room, the Persian carpets "musked by the mold thriving in the humidity," the card table with "ridges worn into its surface by elbows, worry, hope, luck," where his mother hosted games of mahjong and tsikitsa). Second, the story presents a moral conundrum regarding changing codes of conduct and the hard realities of the neofeudal society. It ends with the land Del Pais had pa.s.sed on, so willingly, being bought up by neighboring landlords, who themselves have just repurchased their own estates. Del Pais is left with only his home and the interest from his limited fortune, "his father's father's land lost and he surrounded on all sides by a siege of greed by men who were to him once his equals, though now suddenly in one way more and in many ways less." The last scene describes the old man standing in his garden, staring at his house "as if it is on fire."

Our vernal protagonist is surprised by Lena's appearance-"Crispin in drag," he will later write, "an unsuccessful scarecrow, in a chintz muumuu"-and disappointed by Swanee's. Yes, it remains verdant-the balete trees monstrous, the lawn still manicured like a putting green. The tall stone tower, long ruined by artillery, now refurbished as a cellular site for telecom companies. But the house itself is dour, flaking, patched-the air-con units rusting and dripping, the capiz sh.e.l.l panes in the wooden window screens cracked or missing, the lost roof tiles replaced with swatches of metal GI sheets. Interviewer and interviewee sit outside. He is vaguely disappointed, too, in the sister herself. She fiddles nervously with her walking stick. Reading Walt Whitman, she says, was perfect for her brother's funeral, a good choice for a dead atheist who believed in the divinity of all things.

"Where?" Dulce asked.

"That one," Gardener told the girl, "over there, the one with roots for branches. If we're not careful, we'll return there before our time."

Thick branches drooped sinewy tendrils around its trunk and deep into the ground. Its hanging limbs reminded Dulce of curtains, its roots like Gardener's knotty toes. A teacher at school had taught Dulce the native names for the trees in their region-narra, bakawan, almaciga, kamagong, molave-as well as their foreign names. This tree was the balete, or moraceae, also known as the strangler tree. The name alone sent shivers down Dulce's spine.

"If you sleep at its base," Gardener said, "you will awaken trapped inside it. n.o.body will find you. Once, at night, I saw the branches part to reveal a glowing door."

"What's in the door?" Dulce said, suspiciously.

"Where we came from and where we're going."

Dulce was skeptical. "My stepdad told me we originally came from Spain," she said.

Gardener spat dismissively on the soil. "All I know," he said, "is that tree is where we're all headed."

-from Kapatid Kapatid, Book One of Crispin Salvador's Kaputol Kaputol trilogy trilogy *

My regard for my grandfather first started to dismantle in a church, years after we moved back to Manila. It was the day of my uncle Marcelo's funeral. Or maybe it was long before. Who knows? Maybe t.i.to Marcelo's funeral was merely a day of formal finality. Or the last slope before the bottom of my relationship with my grandfather.

Grapes had me write the eulogy he would read. It was not something I felt right doing, as if I were being drawn into a private argument in which I did not belong. I still don't understand it. Sure, we'd grown up with Grapes's stories of how Marcelo was given the best of educations only to become a struggling artist who chose to be, of all things, a security guard-one of the lowest rungs in our society-because it allowed him to write and sketch while on duty. (Granma said he shamed the good name of our family.) Or how Marcelo would secretly take Granma's paintings by National Artists, canvases worth a mint, and subst.i.tute copies he had made himself, selling the originals for far less than they were worth. (Granma said that as a boy he'd often come home from boarding school with items stolen from residence mates.) Or how Marcelo had written an unflattering novel about Grapes and Granma, even though the book was set at the 1904 World's Fair in St. Louis, Missouri, and was about an Igorot native whom the Americans had exhibited like an animal. (Granma was convinced the characters of the exhibit organizers were based on her and Grapes.) Or how Marcelo had made amends with my grandparents just five years earlier, coming to them with news he had rectal cancer and needed money for chemotherapy, but had really just spent the money they gave him on gambling and wh.o.r.es. (Of the alleged fraud, Grapes said my uncle would "get it in the end.") Though t.i.to Marcelo really did end up dying of rectal cancer, all those stories only made us love our grandparents more, and love even less the aunts and uncles we did not grow up with and would not get to know. And now I had to summon elegiac phrases to describe what I could only imagine of perfect paternal love.

Grapes stood at the altar and read what I had written, orating as if to a crowd of hungry voters made captive by a meal promised afterward. The words were my best estimate of what Grapes should have been feeling at his own son's death. Perhaps, unknown to me, his sense of loss had been so profound he'd been rendered speechless. Perhaps, after having to bury my father, the favored, and then my uncle, the intractable, perhaps it was too much for Grapes to lose his two boys. Who knows? So I tried my best to write a good speech. For gravitas, I'd put in a couple of quotes from King Lear King Lear. Something about how it is the stars, the stars that govern our conditions. And how when we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools. It wasn't because I thought Grapes anything like Lear. Maybe, in retrospect, his tragic relationship with rage did resonate. Anyway, I'd got the lines from a book of quotes, because I didn't know what else to add to a eulogy that deserved to contain more. After, my cousin sang a beautiful song she'd written for her father; when she was done we started to clap, but Granma grabbed my and my brother's hands sternly.

The honor guard from the national security guards' union, who'd shown up suddenly at my uncle's wake to stand sleepless vigil beside his casket-despite his having fallen out with them years ago over money-now took their places by his coffin, pallbearers to their longtime treasurer. "Go!" Granma urged us brothers. We went and took the handles from the guards, elbowing them roughly aside. The coffin dipped and almost fell.

At the gravesite, the lid was opened for one last time. My t.i.ta Natty, t.i.to Marcelo's third wife, held his hand and wailed at the sky. I took his other hand, hoping to find a connection I'd not known in life. I had never touched a dead person before. I've never since.

I skipped the reception after. I was afraid Grapes would clap me on the shoulder proudly and tell everyone that I'd written the eulogy.

When I got home, I could hear Granma weeping in her room.

Erning has trouble getting a good tech job because the Americans are wary of accepting his foreign qualifications. So he hits the job listings in the cla.s.sified ads and finds this: "Wanted-Porch Painter." Erning, excited, says to himself: Wow. This is great! In the Philippines, I've painted many things. The walls of our old house. My uncle's chicken coop. My niece's bicycle. I'm very qualified!

So Erning applies and shows up bright and early at the employer's house. The burly blond fellow explains to him, speaking slowly and loudly: "Okay, buddy. I don't know how you folks do it where you come from, but I want you to paint my porch in one day. First, sc.r.a.pe all the paint off to the bare surface. Then apply a coat of primer. When that dries, I want you to do two coats of this pink paint. Can you do that?"

Erning thinks it a strange request. Pink doesn't seem like a good color at all. But Erning figures this is California. Besides, it's no use understanding Americans. Especially rich ones. "Yes, sir," Erning says eagerly. "I can remove paint and apply paint very well thank you very much!"

"Okay, buddy," the American says. "You've got the job. All the material's already been unloaded from the trunk of the car."

Only two hours later, the American hears a knock on his front door. When he opens it, Erning's there, standing proudly, flecked with pink paint. "Sir, the job is finished!"

"Far out, bro," says the American. "Only took you two hours! Are you sure you sc.r.a.ped the paint to the bare surface?"

"Yes, sir. I'm positively!"

"And you let the primer dry first?"

Erning nods.

"And then you put on two coats of pink?"

"You betcha by golly wow," Erning says. He's thrilled at being impressive. He thinks: If Americans are this taken by our work ethic, I'll have a high-paying tech job in no time.

The American is indeed impressed. "Wow, you Mexicans sure work well. Okay, buddy. You deserve a bonus. Here's another ten bucks!"

Erning is delighted. "Sir, thank you, sir!" Relishing this feeling of being a star employee, Erning adds: "But I have to tell you, sir, 'cause maybe you don't know much about these things. You don't own a Porch. Your car's a Ferrari."

In addition to Latin, Spanish, Ancient Greek, and French, young Salvador also learned basic Nippongo, though from Yataro, the family's j.a.panese gardener, who, Salvador recalled, "had a phobic aversion to having his photograph taken." The phrases the boy learned would later prove vital during the war. But for many years prior, "the funny little Yataro" oversaw the cosmetic upkeep of the estates. Yataro was remembered as "very learned" and introduced Salvador to bonsai by allowing him to "watch him at work, while impatiently explaining the virtue of patience." Yataro also had him repeat haiku verses by Basho, Buson, and Issa, "laughing with delight" at the boy's eventual success. Yataro, with his "military bearing and plodding reliability," was very respected by the family and was given responsibility over three Visayan gardeners. As a result, following completion of various improvement projects, his requests for vacations were usually granted and he traveled widely around the Philippines, "trusty Leica III hanging from his neck," always bringing back for the Salvador children small souvenirs and delicacies from distant provinces-a mortar and pestle of Romblon marble, "gooey sweet rice paste in sealed coconut husks" from Bohol, a kris from Mindanao with a sinuously curved blade, a conch from Leyte, a carved wooden fertility G.o.d from Ilocos Norte. It was because of Yataro that Salvador "first learned how vast and varied are the cultures of our islands. Little did I know, in addition to changing my life, Yataro would also save it."

-from the biography in progress, Crispin Salvador: Crispin Salvador: Eight Lives Lived, by Miguel Syjuco *

Lena looked to me like Crispin in drag, like an unsuccessful scarecrow. Her voice wispy, but without the tremolo of the aged. Her handshake surprisingly firm. A surfeit of talc.u.m and Provencal lavender was like an invisible aura around her. Her hair, dyed such a bad brown it was orange, was pulled severely into a bun on her head like a tangerine. She wore a rainbow chintz muumuu, leather clogs, sungla.s.ses with diamantes, and many jingling bangles.

We sat outside on the shady veranda. Tea and plates of sliced guava and papaya had been laid out. A maid in a mint-green uniform materialized to cool us with a large straw fan, like something out of a Rudolph Valentino film. From the house came the reedy serenade of "Misty," the volume much too loud. When Lena saw me look inside, she sent the maid to fetch the CD cover. "Superlative, no? I so so love it. Much more preferable to Richard Clayderman." The maid returned and Lena gestured her toward me with a movement like throwing a Frisbee. I studied the cover appreciatively: love it. Much more preferable to Richard Clayderman." The maid returned and Lena gestured her toward me with a movement like throwing a Frisbee. I studied the cover appreciatively: Romance of the Oboe Romance of the Oboe.

When Lena recited Whitman, she closed her eyes, as her brother had been wont to do. "'And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, the smallest sprout shows there is really no death, and if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it. And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, and to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.'"

I take out my pad and my pen and start the interview by asking about Crispin's death.

"I know nothing about his vest," she says.

"No, I meant how do you think he died?"

"Do I think he'd mind what?"

"I'm sorry, um-let me get my list-er, did you two keep up correspondence when he was in New York?"