Papa would often use the walks to Church as an opportunity to lecture the children on behaviour or to gently reprimand them for their mistakes during the week. Minda’s Papa, Robertini, really was a gentle soul and struggled always to impart the necessary gravity in his reprimands, for the children to take him seriously. Oh, of course, they nodded and agreed with everything he said. After all, he was their father and they respected and loved him dearly, but each knew that next time they would almost certainly make the same mistake again or commit the same sin again, with little or no consequence.
Minda always liked to use the opportunity of the walks, to drift off into the world of her imagination. Her love of reading, despite the paucity of material available, had imparted in her a sense of wonder of the world, of creation, and of nature; an enquiring mind, in fact. When she was walking, her ears would be tuned to the sounds of the birds warbling, her eyes would be casting around the uniform rows of waving palay (rice) or mais (corn), the two principal crops of most farmers in the area just north of the capital, Manila. But her mind, yes her mind would be soaring through the clouds, over the seas, to wonders and excitement she had only read about and could only dream about. She dreamt one day of travelling the world, of seeing first-hand the amazing things she had read about in books; the Pyramids of Egypt, St Peter’s Basilica in Rome, the amazing, newly constructed, Eiffel Tower in Paris, and that symbol of freedom, the Statue of Liberty in New York. Oh, there was all that and so, so, much more for Minda to dream about. In her heart and in her mind she was able to lift herself out of the role of subservient, peasant girl and into the persona of a sophisticated, young lady, travelling the world in luxury. Her imagination was what gave her the power to be who she really was.
“What?” Through her daydreams, Minda was sure she’d heard her mother’s voice saying her name and she could tell from the tone of it, it wasn’t something she was going to enjoy hearing. “Sorry Mama, what did you say again? I was sort of daydreaming.”
“Daydreaming! Pffft!” her mother scoffed angrily. “Daydreaming, that’s what you do, just too much of, Luzviminda... daydreaming, indeed!” It wasn’t often her mother called her by her full name, so she knew something serious was up. She only used it when she was really annoyed with her or wanted to impart something equally serious to her.
“Sorry Mama,” she whispered softly. “I’m listening now.”
“Mmmm, I wonder if you are ever really listening to what your papa and I say, Luzviminda.” She shook her head softly, before reaching under the puffed sleeve of her traditional Filipino dress to reach for a handkerchief. After wiping her brow, she turned to Minda and continued. “So, as I was saying, when you weren’t listening, your papa and I have been talking.” Minda gulped deeply, she knew what was coming and she really didn’t want to hear it. “You’re fifteen now Minda and it is high time we selected a suitable husband for you. Both of your Ates’ (elder sisters) were married and settled down by the time they were sixteen and look at them now. They have their own families and they couldn’t be happier.”
Minda knew that wasn’t true, no not true at all. Rosalinda, the sister who was two years older than her was far from happy. The last time she visited, she was already pregnant with her second child and she had lain on Minda’s bed sobbing her heart out, as she’d explained to her how her husband Raoul beat her for no reason at all and how he treated her like nothing more than a slave who could provide him with the sexual release he craved. She had confided in Minda that now she was pregnant again, Raoul no longer even touched her and made absolutely no secret of his many mistresses. “You know Minda,” she had said, “I didn’t want to marry him, I wanted to graduate high school and go on to University, but Mama would hear none of it. She insisted, girls didn’t need to study to learn to become wives and mothers. No! I was to marry Raoul and to be thankful he wanted me.” She’d grasped Minda by the shoulders, her face a mixture of pain, lost opportunities, and determination. “Don’t let them do that to you my darling, little sister. Don’t let them make you sacrifice your life for a man. You are so much better than that.”
Minda agreed wholeheartedly with her sister, but she also knew her parents’ determination to wed them all off to suitable husbands who could help increase the family’s standing in the community, especially with the Spanish administrators. “But how can I Rose? How can I possibly stand up against Mama and Papa?” she had asked her sister.
Rosalinda had leant in conspiratorially and had whispered softly in her ear. “Papa is the key Minda. Mama is determined, but Papa understands our feelings.” She sat back on her heels, on the bed and continued. “You know, Papa fought really hard with Mama for me, but in the end, Mama’s desires won out. That’s not to say, Papa won’t win for you.” She hugged her younger sister tightly, before adding, “work on Papa, Minda. He’s your chance.” Reaching up and placing one hand on either side of Minda’s cheeks she finished by speaking very slowly and forcefully, enunciating every word, “promise me, little one, promise me you will fight. Do it for me and do it for Ate Angel, but most of all do it for you. One of us must make a difference in this world. One of us must break out of this cycle of subservience. It’s too late for Angel and me, but you, my darling Minda, you can still do it. Promise me you will try.”
Tears were cascading down both sisters’ cheeks by now, as Minda choked out a reply, “I will Rose, I promise I will.” The two silently hugged and rocked together on the bed.
Minda drew herself up to her full five-foot two-inches and looked straight into her mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry Mama, marriage does not fit into my plans at this point. I intend to go to University and become a teacher, so there is no way I could get married at this time.” She set her jaw firmly before adding, “and anyway Mama, I am not in love with any boy, so why would I want to marry one?”
Her mother’s jaw had dropped down at her daughter’s open defiance. She looked to her husband for support, but he was conveniently looking out across the fields, at the crops, with the hint of an enigmatic smile on his lips. “Love... love... love… what a load of rubbish,” her mother spluttered. “What do you, a mere child, know about love? Anyway, love is grossly overrated. You marry for position Minda, for security, for advancement. You certainly don’t marry for something as piffling, as insubstantial, and as unimportant as love.” She shook her head so emphatically her bonnet went askew, prompting an unbidden chuckle from Minda.
She whirled on her. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, young lady. Your father and I have discussed it and we are both of a mind. The Mayor’s youngest son, Arturo, would be a perfect match for you.” Her voice took on a more conciliatory and pleasant tone as she continued. “He’s a fine, young man and marriage to the Mayor’s son, well, who knows where that might lead for all of us. No, we are in agreement and your father will go and visit the Mayor next week to present your case to him.” She reached over and rubbed Minda’s arm to try and pacify her. “Minda, one day you will thank us for making such an advantageous pairing for you. This could be the start of something special for this family.”
Minda jerked her arm away and answered, just a little too loudly. “No, Mama. I’ve already told you I am not ready for marriage. I have plans.” Looking up, she added, “We’re almost there. Mama, can we please talk about this later. We don’t want everyone to know we are arguing.”
“Oh, young lady, you can bet we will talk about this later. You will do as you are told. You will not shame this family, or you will be sorry.” With that she jerked her head straight and marched up toward the steps of the small church, where the Friar, stood, beaming down at his congregation, as they streamed into the house of worship.
Minda looked to see who was on duty at the Mass this morning. It was Father Francis, a man she truly despised. Standing there, on the steps, the sweat pouring down his florid face, she marvelled that these grossly obese, horrible, little men actually had so much power over the populace of this country. He paused to pull a large t
owel from the voluminous folds of his dirty, brown robe. Mopping his forehead, he continued to shake hands with his congregation, his bristly, double-rolled jowls shuddering each time he nodded his head to one of his worshippers. His thin lips were pursed in that permanent sneer he seemed to always wear and his tiny, pig-like eyes were constantly darting backwards and forwards as his eyes sought out and latched onto the young girl’s bodies. She gave a snort of disgust at the fat pig’s antics. God, she thought, he isn’t even subtle about his lecherous nature. He just stares unashamedly at the girls’ breasts and buttocks.
She’d heard some awful rumours about Father Francis’ peccadilloes over the years. There was talk of several young girls leaving town suddenly, with whispered rumours of the Father having yet again gotten another young maiden pregnant. Although the girls were never seen again in the town, invariably their family’s lot in life seemed to improve dramatically after their departures. Minda could only assume the church had bought the family’s silence. Disgusting, filthy men, was what coursed through her mind. To think they have the temerity to stand up in the pulpits every Sunday and preach hell-fire and damnation to us all, whilst they were probably the biggest sinners of them all.
Father Francis had once surreptitiously tried to slide his hand over Minda’s budding breasts, when she was in the church choir, at age twelve. He had been conducting the choir and had made a big pretence about correcting all the girls’ postures. Standing behind them, he had placed both arms around them and squeezed their diaphragms, as they sang, to show them how to reach the notes. As he’d done this to Minda, his hands had slid up until he was literally cupping both her tiny mounds. She could smell his hot, rancid breath on her neck. It smelled of wine, garlic and something else indescribable. She could hear him panting, as he fingered her immature nipples and she felt something hard pressing against the small of her back. When choir practice finished he called her over and told her he wanted to talk to her about something important, in the Sacristy. Minda pled she was already late leaving and her mother would be furious with her if she was late home and didn’t prepare the rice for the evening meal in time. She ran out of the church and when she got home she told her Mother she was finished with the choir because it was taking up too much of her time and encroaching on her chores and homework. She had never set foot inside that church, by herself, ever again.
Her mother had reached the front of the receiving line now and took the Father’s proffered hand, curtseying deeply to him. Father Francis sighed, as he made the sign of the cross for the umpteenth time that morning and gazed up at the hot sun already beating down on the church square. Taking the soggy towel from its place in his robes he again mopped his face, before greeting Robertini with a firm handshake. Without even looking at him, Minda took the Father’s hand, curtseyed quickly and rushed to follow her parents into the relative coolness of the church interior.
For a small town, the Church of the Immaculate Conception, in Santa Maria, Bulacan, was imposing and beautiful. Minda had come to realise this was one of the ways the Friars used, to inspire awe and fear amongst the local population. They built these enormous edifices to their God and then stood on their high pulpits preaching of sin and damnation, expecting utter obedience and subservience to their God and, of course, to them. Despite her misgivings about the Friar’s motives, she was always a little awestruck as she entered the Church. After dipping her hand in the holy water and sprinkling a little on her forehead, she turned and curtseyed to the image of the Virgin Mary, before quickly following her parents to the pews, about halfway down the cavernous cathedral. As she took her seat with the rest of the family, they immediately dropped to their knees and she could hear her Mother fervently praying. Minda was not a great believer in the power of prayer, so instead, she took the opportunity to look around at the rest of the pious, praying congregation.
She immediately spotted her school friend, Erlinda, who was seated two rows in front of them and across the main aisle. She smiled and gave a tiny wave, which her friend acknowledged with a giggle. As she looked further afield, her eyes locked onto the grinning, face of none other than Arturo de la Cruz, the Mayor’s bunso (youngest child) – her intended! “Yuck!” she exclaimed softly to herself. He was alright to look at she supposed, but she had no intention of even dating him, let alone considering him suitable husband material. She blanched when Arturo suddenly winked at her and licked his lips lasciviously. Oh, my God, she thought. He knows! How could he possibly know? My Father hasn’t even been to see his father yet, so how could he know? Then it hit her. Arturo’s Mother, Teresita, ran the local dress shop. Minda’s mother was a regular visitor there and the pair of them must have cooked up this whole marriage idea between them.
Well, she decided firmly, they can think whatever they please, but there is no way I am ever marrying that spoilt, arrogant, child. I’d rather die first. Looking up, directly at Arturo, who still stared at her and ran his tongue over his lips suggestively, she poked out her tongue at him and shook her head vigorously. Yes, real mature Minda, she thought, but one thing was for certain in her mind. She would fight her parents’ tooth and nail on this issue.
She was going to go to University. She was going to become a teacher and she certainly was NOT going to become Arturo de la Cruz’s little wife. No way! No how!
***
HERNANDO:
Captain Hernando Alvarez de Abreu, of the third Spanish Cavalry Unit, based in the small town of Santa Maria, Bulacan, in the mosquito-infested hell-hole called The Philippines, stretched his back as he gazed out the window at the Unit's parade ground. It was five a.m. and already Hernando was sweating buckets. He groaned loudly. The amount of Madeira he’d consumed the previous evening probably didn’t help with either his temperament or his temperature. For the third time in as many minutes, he ran the edge of his bandana around his stiff military collar and stretched his neck, first one way and then the other, to try and get comfortable, in the starched, heavy, officer’s uniform of the Spanish Cavalry.
What am I doing in this Godforsaken place? he mused. It was a question he asked himself numerous times every day. “Damn it! I am nobility. I am the son of the Marquis of Altamira. I should be back in Spain, enjoying the fruits of the aristocracy. Why am I here?” he railed at the walls.
He knew the answer to that question, though, without even having to ask it. As the second son of the Marquis, he had effectively no rights at all. He would inherit nothing from his father, not the title, not the lands, and certainly not their beautiful estate in Altamira, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, in the north of the country. No, none of that would go to Hernando, due to a sad quirk of nature. It would all go to his twin brother Juan Carlos, who had the great fortune to squeeze his way out of their mother’s womb, two minutes before Hernando. God, nature could be so cruel, sometimes, he thought. As the second son, it was Hernando’s duty to go out and make his own name in the world, to raise the family name high and proud in some suitable endeavour.
Growing up, he’d quickly learnt there were but three real options for the “junior” sons of the nobility. He could join the priesthood. The Catholic Church had always been very powerful in Spain and every noble family was expected to provide at least one son and one daughter to the church’s needs. Hernando was not a religious man. He had looked around him and realised that the way man treated his fellow man could not possibly support the notion of a loving and caring God. He also learnt very early on from his father’s many Cardinal friends that the church was not about piousness or compassion but more about politics, power, greed, and illicit lust. In his humble opinion, some of the most treacherous and evil human beings alive wore red Cardinals’ caps or brown friar’s robes. They were the absolute biggest hypocrites of this world and he wanted no part of them or their lifestyle.
His second choice would have been to follow his father into Government service. His father Don Carlos Manuel O’Donnell y Alvarez de Abreu the second Duke of Tetuan Grandee, the nint
h Marquis of Altamira and the Second Count of Lucena was an incredibly wealthy and powerful man. He had served several governments as their Minister of State and had also performed the role of Mayordomo mayor to King Amadeo. Like the church, Hernando had little time for politics and the gentility and hypocrisy of it all. He had often watched his father entertain and heap praise over guests to the house, who he would later decry, to his family, as imbeciles. He hated the way his father was always at the mercy of whoever happened to be ruling Spain at the time. Sometimes his father would be fêted by royalty, as a true Spanish hero and patriot, whereas at other times he would be taunted and ridiculed as a traitor and a scoundrel. No, Hernando had wanted nothing to do with politics. It was never going to be an option for him.
That just left the Army as his final option and ultimately it was a career choice he took proudly, purposefully and with great enthusiasm. As an already accomplished horseman, it was only natural he would join the cavalry. They were the élite of the Spanish Army, especially the colonial Spanish Army. There was no sight in the world more guaranteed to put the fear of God into a difficult group of natives than Captain Hernando and his unit, sabres swishing through the air, riding full tilt toward them. A good old-fashioned cavalry charge had often been the saviour of many a Spanish infantry division when faced with overwhelming native insurrection.
As a member of one of Spain’s oldest and most noble families, Hernando’s entry into the military was fast-tracked, as was his rapid rise to the rank of Captain. He knew it wouldn’t be terribly long before he was awarded the rank of Commandante. The current commander of the Cavalry Division based in Santa Maria, Commandante Francisco de la Plage was due to retire in a year and Hernando confidently expected to be granted the command by Queen Maria Christina. It would be fair to say, though, that in the two months that had elapsed, since he’d landed in Manila Bay, on the Cruiser Cristobal Colon, to begin his duty here, he’d been suitably unimpressed with his new domicile.
Love Beyond: Walang Hanggang Pagmamahal Page 2