I was disturbed by an earlier comment Narita had made in New York when I told her about the inevitability of my returning to the state university and “paying back” my scholarship; she had said that the UP was an elitist school just like Ateneo, La Salle, and Assumption; it was not contributing to the socialization of knowledge and I would do some good if I taught instead in any of the diploma mills where the poorer classes went. I have thought a lot about what she had said but I needed, I must admit, the prestige of the UP and, also, I knew that the workload there and the pay were much better than in those sweatshops on Azcarraga.
Returning to Manila after five years in Cambridge was a traumatic experience. First, the heat. It was April when I left the United States and San Francisco where I spent a few days was deliciously cool. So was Honolulu where I stayed with friends at the East West Center and took to the beach at Ala Moana for a week. Then, Manila—and wham! The heat suffused everything, every single pore of the body, and sweat poured out of me like I was a leaking faucet. And the filth! Boston is not America’s cleanest city—a friend from Texas said it was Houston—but it was antiseptic compared to what one saw in Manila’s main streets, not to mention the back alleys. And the smell—God, the stench of rot, of decay, of brackish esteros—it hangs over everything like a dismal monsoon.
In Diliman many new houses had gone up, most of them ostentatious with their ornate doorways and plaster work and our house now looked forlorn and shabby beside them.
I had a ready position at the university as associate professor—that was what a Ph.D. did and though the salary was not much, it was enough. I was filled with the usual coming-home expectations, the resentment towards the old fogies who should be retired to let in young blood, the eagerness to try out new theories and an unabashed lack of humility, I think, that went with the degree. I adjusted fairly quickly.
In the week that I arrived, one of the first people I called up was Narita. I retained fond memories of that weekend in her house and wondered if there would be a repeat. I was not going to push it, though. There were summer classes but I did not have any; I was just in the department fixing up my new desk and the schedule I would have in June.
“I’m on my way out, Eddie,” she said. “Can I come and pick you up? We can have dinner together …”
I argued against the long drive from Forbes Park but she was adamant. She was not driving, she said.
As luck would have it, by five that afternoon, some of my colleagues had come in and we were all there, bantering and talking shop when she arrived wearing a summer dress and high heels. She rushed over and planted a kiss on my cheek. My colleagues applauded. They gathered around her; they did not even wait for me to introduce her. They started congratulating her for the piece on the Far East in the last issue of the Sunday Times Magazine. It was Dr. R. D. Badoc, chairman of the Asian Institute, who was literally gushing over it. “I am glad you said it, Mrs. Reyes,” he was saying. “Who else could say that we should recognize Red China now? We would be branded immediately as commies. And your observations about Japan …”
“She has an M.A. in Far Eastern studies from Columbia,” I said.
“We know,” they chorused.
“She speaks Japanese and Mandarin …”
The same knowing nods. Then Dr. Badoc asked her: “It is a shame that we cannot afford you. But if you are willing to accept chicken feed, would you like to teach at my Institute?”
“I will consider it,” Narita said sweetly. “Let’s shake on it,” she held out her hand and Dr. Badoc, the perennial woman chaser, held it for some time.
We proceeded to the waiting Mercedes 280 SE, the parade following us. I was walking on a pillow of feathers. We went to Makati—how the place had changed, the soaring new buildings, the wide streets! I thought we would go to the new hotel at one end of the square but we went instead to the supermarket coffee shop and took a table close to the door. We ordered hamburgers and coffee. It was then that I realized what a politician Narita had become. The visit to the university, her meeting my crowd, even the seat we took in the supermarket—all provided her direct contact with people.
When she arrived from the United States, as we had discussed in New York earlier, she should maximize her exposure but be careful in her image building. She had written a paper in school on China’s and Japan’s relations with Southeast Asia; she had merely halved the article, added some contemporary comments, then walked over to the editor of the largest Sunday magazine in the country. Not only was the article published in two installments, she was also photographed in color for the magazine cover. Now she was all over the society pages. To keep busy in New York, she had written a modern zarzuela (musical drama or operetta) on the labor problem—the sacadas (migrant workers)—of Negros. Poor boy, rich girl sort of story and maudlin, as most zarzuelas go. That established not just her acting and singing talents but also her concern for social justice. And in an interview on television, she had attacked the American bases and echoed the clichés of her father-in-law. The nationalists lapped it all up. She was asked to do a column for one of the newspapers and she did it with aplomb and easily dethroned Etang Papel who had been considered the finest woman columnist in Manila. All these in less than a year. She had really taken off!
When school opened in June, I was anxious about my classes and eager to make an impact. I wanted sociology to be not just a credit subject; I was determined to make it a window into the society so my students could understand it better, its weaknesses. I was all fired with Relevance. By then, too, I was involved with Narita’s career, how I could help shape it. I had no illusions about being a Professor Higgins, for she was no cockney lass. I decided to take down notes of our meetings, the subjects discussed, what courses of action were to be taken. But looking back, there was hardly any new insight that I could glean; all that I did was emphasize the obvious which is, perhaps, the function of the scholar, to dig for bones and then call those bones what they are—bones.
After school had started and routine had settled, she asked me to set up a think tank—not necessarily from my university but from my age group, not just academics but even businessmen and journalists who might be able to contribute something creative to the fossilized political thinking and planning then. There were seven of us—a disparate group which was good, for there is nothing like disagreement to sharpen one’s reasoning. I was, of course, the unofficial chairman although we never took votes or suggested one solution to any problem; always, there were options and what would happen if a certain option was picked up. The members:
—Ismael del Mundo, nationalist businessman
—E. Hortenso, Marxist professor of politics
—Julio Acosta, Jesuit historian
—Greg Collantes, novelist
—M. B. Reyes, editor
—Tomas Monte, farm leader
By the end of the year, we had to include a new name in our group. Dr. E. Samonte, statistician. Not one of us was past fifty and it was Dr. Samonte whom everyone called Doctor in deference to his seniority for he was fifty-five. At first, we did not ask for any remuneration; it was enough that we were doing something other than what we were normally engaged in. It was also flattering for us to be asked by Narita, particularly after she had won the election. Now, we considered ourselves closer to the center of power and we could finally do something about the ideas that churned in our minds.
Academicians often have notions about good government, even a commitment to it, but are never given the opportunity to test their ideas or move the awesome and massive machinery. Narita also knew how much professors were paid. In the group, for instance, it was only del Mundo who had a car. Even Dr. Samonte had to ride in jeepneys. But money was of no consequence to Narita and a representation allowance of one thousand pesos each in 1966, even before she won the election, was something.
I have always wanted to know Senator Reyes personally. His speeches had impressed me with their depth and probity and that Sunday evening at
Narita’s Pobres Park residence, I finally got to meet him. She had sent us an RSVP card, saying it was a sit-down dinner, and I was the first to arrive. I had many questions to ask, the most important of which was how she would be able to reconcile her nationalist platform with her being a member of the sugar bloc; how she would now bring justice to the sugar sacadas whose lives she had commented on in her zarzuela. She could always retort that I should pose the same questions to the senator. But, at least, Senator Reyes never claimed a social conscience; he was an old cacique who wanted the whole pie and cut off the Americans—a sentiment shared by many politicians turned entrepreneurs.
I now realize that these contradictions did not bother Narita; her concern was not image any longer or the ideological foundation for her campaign, but strategy. And we were her generals.
That was the night I should have quit but I did not have the sense then to dichotomize my vanity, my needs, from the full meaning of integrity. I glowed with self-importance; I was an agent of change, and were it not for the likes of me, the forces of decay, of evil, would triumph. And looking at myself at the time I now realize why the technocrats in government today—for all their objectivity and decency—will never leave the corrupt regime not only because they have power and prestige but because they feel that without themselves in government, it could be worse. That, of course, is their highest form of delusion.
Narita wore black pants and the new style barong designed by her dressmaker. She was elegant; and, tonight, instead of kissing me on the cheek, it was on the lips with a little insinuation of her tongue and just as my fancies were starting, she brought me crashing back to earth: “Your deadline for that Muslim profile will be on Monday, Eddie. I know you always meet your deadline, but I am reminding you nonetheless …” And with that, she went into chitchat, guiding the conversation where she thought it should go, never wasting my time, always pumping information out of me.
By seven-thirty, everyone was in and the talk became livelier with Royal Salute, Wild Turkey and cognac. Nothing but the best in Narita’s house and tonight, even her bartender wore white. It was April and steaming outside, but I should have put on a jacket for the air-conditioning was on full blast and even in that cavernous, living room, it was freezing. We were arguing about centralizing data and Isme del Mundo suggested a computer. It was at this moment that Senator Reyes arrived, saying that he had to leave his poker session although he was already winning a hundred thousand pesos—well, anything for his favorite daughter.
I had not seen him since he came to Santa Ana to address our graduating class and he seemed to have changed but little except for the white mane and the slightly perceptible stoop. He was as dark as the bottom of a pot and his pugnacious face which was familiar to all of us in Negros was rendered malevolent by his eyes which were narrow slits, the pouches bulging from under them. Narita brought him in and we stood up as he slouched on the sofa before us. “We were talking about a computer, Papa, which we need for the campaign and for other things. You can feed it all that mess in your office and simplify your operation as well …”
“Order it tomorrow, hija,” he said indulgently, taking the glass of cognac that the waiter immediately handed him.
Del Mundo, always conscious of costs and particular with figures, spoke then: “It is very expensive, Senator. At least a quarter of a million dollars and we would have to train programmers and a staff to run—”
The Old Man did not even look at Isme. “You can raid any of the companies in Manila that have the competent people, hijo. Make that your job, offer them incentives. IBM should be able to satisfy us. And as for taxes …” He did not continue; he was not president of the Senate for nothing.
At dinner, it was all trivia interspersed with the senator’s bawdy jokes which were pathetically dated. Narita did not laugh at them and, at first, I thought she was being prudish as we, ourselves, hypocrites, were laughing as if we had not heard them before. The Old Man was sharp. “Narita does not laugh at these jokes anymore.” he said dryly. “She has heard them so many times but she lets me tell them just the same.”
It was a fine French meal that started with vichyssoise. With our stomachs finally stuffed with soufflé, cups of coffee in hand, we proceeded to the library for the session that was to last till four in the morning, the senator lording over it. He started with grandiloquence and self-depreciation: “Politics is the highest form of human enterprise for with politics, we shape the state and, therefore, the nature of society. It is an honorable profession made dishonorable by rascals like myself who have, like bad weeds, lived this long. I must go but the state lives on. And if you want to better the state, then look at politicians as necessary evils. Not that Narita is evil—,” he looked at his daughter-in-law seated on the arm of the sofa, her hand on his shoulder. “But she is a pretty little devil, isn’t she?” We all laughed and Narita accepted the compliment with a smile. She really had the Old Man wrapped around her little finger and I wouldn’t have been surprised then if the senator, the old goat that we all knew him to be, desired her, too. Then, “I have discussed it with the President and all the Party chieftains. I could have made a unilateral decision, but I believe in the democratic process. And, besides, this will be the first time that the Party will have a beautiful and brilliant candidate.”
The king is dead! Long live the king! We all clapped in complete harmony. Now, we really had work to do, now we had an objective—to win the election—two years away.
“You are all family now,” the senator boomed. “So let us talk frankly. Candidly. You are also novatos—but brilliant novatos who have ideas. Or is it plots? I would like to hear all of them. Talk of nothing else but how to win …”
The discussion was freewheeling; we started with regional issues, the Ilocos and tobacco and the possibility of reestablishing the cotton industry there. Tourism for the Mountain Province and resettlement in Cagayan Valley and in the foothills of Sierra Madre. Rice and agrarian reform in Central Luzon. Decentralization of the sugar industry, fishing in the Visayas and intensified agriculture, the Muslim problem in Mindanao. Then we went into foreign relations, the American bases and, finally, tactics.
Narita participated in this discussion but all talk stopped whenever the Old Man made a point or suggested details. He had, after all, four decades of practice. He was right. We were novices and we never talked about cheating, the use of violence, intimidation, pork-barrel funds, and blackmail; these were real instruments, but we blithely ignored them.
Narita and the Old Man were peeved. I had not known how very much alike they had become in their thinking. “If it will mean victory, then cheat!” the Old Man pontificated.
“The objective is to win,” Narita said coolly. “You cannot talk morality with opponents who are immoral. You cannot tell the truth to people who will not accept that truth.”
I felt uneasy; my training was different. In that small town where I was born, my parents had pounded a little bit of honesty into me.
“You must always have options,” Narita was continuing. “That is what politics is. Always the possible …”
We were exhausted although the fruit, cake, coffee, and liquor came continuously. Saliva dripped from the corner of the Old Man’s mouth and Narita dutifully wiped it off. He was starting to doze off, and she told him to go upstairs and sleep but he said he would go home. We took him to his car and bade him good-night. The others were driven home but I stayed behind.
Alone, finally, she cuddled close as we talked, the stereo playing Chopin softly. She sighed. “I can hardly wait to put everything into motion, Eddie. I know you have reservations, but, for my sake, don’t remind me of that small house—not in the presence of others. The past is just for the two of us …”
“I did not talk about Santa Ana,” I said.
“You did, too.”
“No.”
“Want to bet?” She went to the desk at the other end of the library, fiddled with some knobs in a drawer. The music
stopped and clearly, very clearly, our voices—excited and pitched—came alive. She had taped the entire discussion; the library, perhaps the whole house, was bugged.
The pre-convention plan was set. Her zarzuela was transported to Davao, Dumaguete, Bacolod, Cebu, Iloilo, and even Dagupan. It was bringing culture to the provinces. She was also invited to lecture at the universities in the South, all the way to a small college in Bongao, Sulu, and there was her thrice-a-week column that I liked to read for its freshness and unpredictability.
In the process, she was making political profiles of the provinces and checking up with the senator on the personalities she had met or wanted to meet.
She learned fast and she had a retentive memory. When the computer came at the end of the year, I wondered how necessary it really was. She had committed to memory so many things, she could have won without it.
FOUR
I have seen Narita in tears only once. By this time, she already had a suite in her father-in-law’s Makati building, the nerve center for her political future. She had an excellent clipping service. She had called me, I thought, about some urgent problem. When I arrived, she closed the door, told me to sit down and read an item in a weekly gossip column by Mita Guzman.
Narita never had much respect for Filipino journalists—an attitude she got from Senator Reyes who handed envelopes at the end of every month to a wide assortment of reporters. They covered the Senate and other trivia and passed themselves off as journalists. She had the long list and on it were editors, some of whom professed the highest moral motives.
Three Filipino Women Page 5