Now I truly had freedom. Only the wealthy can understand this feeling. I knew, of course, the fullest extent of that wealth, the small details that matter. I was also aware of the strengths and weaknesses of my major people, my allies, the family names of most of my employees. I never called them by their first names. This honor I reserved for the people in the highest echelons, and for my closest friends. I tried to keep them all, even those I regarded as my friends, at arm’s length, never had them close to my private life.
How wonderful that my father was close to Quezon so that he was able to get huge chunks of Quezon City when that vast estate was being divided. I added to that, much, much more than Father had ever accumulated in his lifetime.
At this point, maybe it is necessary to explain why I am relating all this, delving into a cobwebbed past with memory already tarnished by age and disease. Some basic honesty is demanded of me to even things out. But, perhaps, more than this, I need to rationalize myself, justify even a past that enriched (and corroded, some would say) my life. I listen to my own silent recitation of pious obscurities, the air wheezing, rasping from my lungs and, above all, my own wind-drowned call, begging Severina’s forgiveness.
My illustrious grandfather died when I was a boy, but I remember him well and all those paeans to him, his monuments in bronze—four of them, one in Manila, one in Pasay, another in Caloocan and, of course, in Quezon City. These are his by achievement. Now, this historian, Lamberto Campo, again; he writes with Jesuitic elegance. He has mentioned my grandfather several times in his “new” history of the Philippines. He insinuates brazenly that our wealth was ill-gotten from the beginning, that my grandfather had been left in the rear to take charge of revolutionary funds. He married a wealthy woman and used the money to buy huge tracts of land, enlarged further and legitimized by the cadastral surveys the Americans instituted in the twenties. Grandfather and his wife were also usurers; thus the Cobello fortune grew. The revolution was lost, Aguinaldo was a prisoner. Would it have done any good if Grandfather had handed all that money to the Americans?
This Lamberto Campo also alleges that my grandfather and most of the wealthy mestizos who joined the revolution when it was succeeding conspired to bleed this nation with a “development” plan that would have enriched them at the expense of the Republic. Again, I say: Qué barbaridad!
This Campo claims he has letters, documents and everything else on which his word formidably stands. Let him—no one can deny Grandfather’s role in the revolution, and it is too late to alter all those history books, most of all, what had long been implanted in the minds of many generations of schoolchildren.
What is history anyway but soon forgotten and what remains are its pallid ghosts, the trite leavings as we understand them, confronted as we are with the demands of our daily lives. A street here, a phrase there, a footnote now and then, perhaps a memoir, an article—these are the reminders that do not really perish, and the so-called truths that this Lamberto Campo professes are only for those finicky worms in the libraries, those insignificant scribblers searching for bones bleached and flaking in cemeteries of the past.
But for people like me, history is a real luxury, for we have all the time to read, to amass the artifacts of the past, to contemplate this past if we are thinking at all. The people—those Indios who live in the farms, in rundown neighborhoods—to them history has no meaning. All they are aware of is us, the living with our sanctified names; we have been vested by history with the power to write it, create it, for that is what it has always been—history is written by the strong.
And who would now destroy what we have built through the years with our brawn, our entrepreneurship and our cunning? Not these puny rebel movements whose leaders we can buy. And as for those nationalist zealots, we can emasculate them just as easily with a government leadership cognizant of our power to co-opt their slogans, their heroes and mouth-pieces. This should be clearly understood by those who seek power, who aspire to change the status quo or join it.
The playing field in the Philippines is never level and it is so wide open, anything goes. But why should it be level? When was it ever level? The regulations imposed by government do not mean anything if people in power are your friends. That is a major prerequisite, as I have always said. Know the people who matter. How I took over the Heritage Bank is instructive and it illustrates my point. I needed to have one in the early sixties—you cannot flourish in business unless you have a bank where you can store your money, a bank that you can use as a milking cow. I had a minority share in Heritage Bank and I wanted to control it for my own purposes. Increase its capital stock? And buy most of it? That is too expensive an operation, necessitating the tying up of so much capital that could be used elsewhere. Why not weaken the bank first, with massive withdrawals and the gossip that it is going to be bankrupt, innuendoes in the press—oh, that’s the easiest thing to do, with almost all these journalists not only gullible but so easy to buy! Then, as it starts to stagger, as the stocks come in cheap, and with explicit threats of closure by the Central Bank, go in like the Lone Ranger to save it from disaster. And the depositors, not privy to your machinations, are even pleased that you are there at the right time!
How fortunate that much of Hacienda Esperanza was planted to sugar and the major asset of Cobello y Cia is this and the sugar mill. Ah, sugar! The magic crop that is the foundation of my wealth and that of the Filipino elite. Sugar is thus also the foundation of Filipino politics.
Most Filipinos immediately associate the island of Negros and its effete and ostentatious hacenderos with sugar. They really do not know that the bulk of our sugar exports for the American quota is produced here, in Luzon. They are correct, however, when they say we were the most powerful economic group in the nation—the sugar bloc, why every Negrense, even with just a dozen hectares, wants to be called a sugar baron.
How fortunate indeed that, from the very beginning, my grandfather had latched on to this sweet enterprise, thereby assuring for my family not just wealth but political power. For those who are unfamiliar with sugar politics, a bit of background: the United States has traditional commodity agreements with favored nations. With us, it is sugar. Every American administration gives a quota to its clients. That is to say, if the world price for sugar is a hundred pesos a sack, for its friends, this price is increased to a hundred and fifty pesos—the additional fifty pesos to be shouldered by the American housewife. How could we sugar producers lose?
It follows then that it is necessary for us not simply to maintain this quota but to enlarge it, and we can do this only by pandering to American politicians, by being in their good graces. So we contribute to their political funds, pamper them with our unbeatable hospitality—they are, after all, only human.
We see to it therefore that every Philippine president is sympathetic to our interest. Ha! We have banded together to make our interest the national interest! It is not enough that our ambassador to Washington is himself a sugar man, a mestizo—we also see to it that every Philippine president is our man, sympathetic to our aspirations.
In mid-1971, the Leader called for me. I had carefully nurtured his friendship, having helped him in the last two elections that maintained him in the palace. He had once thought of making me a cabinet minister but I declined the position, for it would have overexposed me when what I really wanted was the embassy in Spain. I have always known that there was more Chinese blood in his system than Indio, which explained his cunning, his stealthy patience.
We were alone in his office, surrounded by all that shiny mahogany. A little runt of an executive secretary was showing him a batch of papers when I came in and he immediately dismissed the man—he wanted us to be alone. I have always liked his style—straight to the point, no time wasted. “Is Hacienda Esperanza doing all right, Carling?”
I smiled. “Yes, Mr. President.”
He stood up, shook my hand and told me to sit down. “You must convert more of your rice lands into sugar, a
nd do it quick. As for your rice tenants, make them immediately into hired hands, laborers paid on a monthly or even daily basis. Do this immediately, Carling.”
“May I at least know the reason, Mr. President?” I was surprised by this unusual order.
He stood up, the visit was over, and as he walked me to the door, an arm on my shoulder, he said quietly, “You are a very dear friend, Carling. That is why.”
A year later I realized the reason. He declared martial law and simultaneously decreed a sweeping land reform program, which, however, spared the coconut and sugar lands. All rice and corn lands that were tenanted were to be distributed to the tenants but not those rice and corn lands that were cultivated by laborers on a daily, weekly, or monthly wage. Hacienda Esperanza was untouched.
How are noncareer Filipino ambassadors chosen? How else but from the ranks of those who had contributed to the Leader’s coffers. I had always wanted to be ambassador to Spain, but that sinecure was given to a mestizo much closer to the Leader and his wife than I. It was also a reward; the ambassador and his wife had been the guardians of the Leader’s illegitimate daughter by Mimi Cardenas, his mistress. I had assisted him in his ruthless climb to power, having fully understood the compulsions that drove the man. I did not go to him to ask for that posting—I got to him through the mistress he could not deny.
I had known Mimi since she was in college, as she had worked briefly for me as a secretary. She came from an impoverished Ermita family, mestizo, of course. She had starred in college plays, could sing a little, and that was how she attracted me and, after me, the Leader. Their liaison was blessed with this daughter, now in school in Switzerland. It was Mimi who told me the Leader and his wife were planning a state visit to Latin America, that an embassy in Peru was to be opened.
As I said, I would have preferred the embassy in Spain. And why not? I had salted away much of my wealth—The Yolk!—in the mother country. I had houses in Madrid, Barcelona and San Sebastian; properties in Andalucia; housing estates in Majorca; banks in Bilbao, Sevilla and Madrid. And I donated a magnificent museum for Spanish contemporary art in Alicante. Didn’t my father and all those Spanish priests in Manila support Franco and his Falangists?
And so it happened. I was in Madrid in 1973 when the Leader himself called. Mimi had really gone to work on my behalf. The Leader said I should return to Manila immediately and get ready to leave for Peru.
Now, let me make this clear, for there are those naive spirits who think it was easy to say no to the Leader. The consequences of denying him may not be immediately forthcoming, but they will surely come, for the man had a retentive memory. There were, to be sure, snide objections to my ambassadorship—these I learned later from the ministry people who recorded these diligently, that I would use the post for my own purposes. But what government official hasn’t done this? My loyalties were dubious, but in those times, loyalty to the Leader was loyalty to the nation. It was that simple.
I hurried to the palace and the Leader was pleased that I had accepted. What were the policies he wanted me to pursue in Peru? “As your personal emissary, your goodwill is my first responsibility. But, Mr. President, I need to be briefed on the details.”
He smiled benignly. “That is what I like about you, Carling. But you really don’t need instructions. You speak excellent Spanish, you are cultured, urbane—and rich! The government support is small. Budgetary restrictions …”
I immediately understood; I was expected to donate my money.
I asked for the dossiers of the people who were to accompany me, particularly those who could speak Spanish, who also had some knowledge of South America. I had a long talk with my deputy, a career officer, and told him he would have the run of the embassy. At the same time, I made it clear to him that he would hang if he bungled, but would be rewarded magnificently by Cobello y Cia if I triumphed. I brought two of my own men to backstop him, paid by Cobello y Cia, five of my Sta. Mesa household staff and my favorite niece as my private secretary.
The embassy in Lima was an old gray building, the residence in similar antiquated condition. I had both refurbished with new drapes, carpets, furniture, plumbing, electric fixtures. My staff—I did something that endeared me to them and also polished my democratic image. I took them one by one to lunch or dinner at the Club Excelsior, Lima’s snootiest social club, of which I had immediately become a member. They told me later that no ambassador had ever invited the lowliest janitor or driver to dine with him.
I can see myself again, resplendent in my jusi barong and tuxedo trousers, at the glittering receptions in Pizarro Palace. I can hear my voice, the cadence and poetry of Spanish as only urbane and cultured men can express themselves. How I loved Lima, felt at home not so much with the history impregnated in this venerable capital but because I shared with the mestizo aristocracy its affinity with Spain—none of the embedded cravings for indigenous culture, the loathing of priests prevalent in Mexico and the often anti-Spanish sentiments as the bedrock of Filipino nationalism. The elite in Peru is white and I easily fitted in it, surrounded now by people of similar racial and social inclinations.
But Delfin—my son! My son! He would have no appreciation of such lofty sentiments. He is much too involved with the rabble, the lazy, stinking Indios, and it is they who will inherit the earth! Qué barbaridad!
Let me backtrack a little again. One morning, in mid-May in 1963, Cornejo at the gate came to me. Angela, about six years old then, Corito and I were having breakfast on the terrace, which, the day before, had been washed by rain. The potted bromeliads shone and portions of the marble were still glazed with water. Cornejo had been with us for more than a decade, his father before him also our gatekeeper. He kept the gate closed at all times, opening the side door only to the servants and to guests who were properly announced or were expected. Like most of the help, he was from the hacienda, dark of skin, with a diffident smile that was a kind of mask. It was with this meaningless smile that he approached us. I was having my favorite fried rice with garlic, sliced tomatoes with salted eggs and strong Batangas coffee.
“Señorito, a young man at the gate wants to see you. He came yesterday afternoon. He is a provinciano, tall, about seventeen or eighteen years old. I told him I cannot let him in and he said he will not leave until he has seen you. All he has with him is a small canvas bag. When I looked outside this morning, he was asleep by the gate. It is good it did not rain last night else he would have been very wet.”
“What does he want?” My interest was aroused.
“He said he does not want anything, just to see you and talk with you. Not more than ten minutes, he said. I examined his bag—just a few old clothes. I searched him. No weapons. Not even a small knife …”
“Let him in,” I said.
I will never forget the first time I saw Delfin. I was through with breakfast and was just sipping my coffee. Corito and Angela were finished, too, but had stayed on at the table, curious about this insistent visitor.
Delfin walked into our presence with what seemed like cock-sure confidence and as he stood before me, he bowed slightly and said “Good morning, sir” crisply in well-pronounced English. He glanced at Angela and Corito and nodded toward them in greeting, too.
There he stood and a shock of recognition quickly coursed through me; he looked exactly like me in my youth though a little bit darker—the same wide brow, the straight nose and that chin. He was poorly dressed in faded khaki pants and white shirt, but there was about him an unmistakable look of aristocracy.
“What do you want to see me for?”
He glanced again at Angela and Corito. “May I speak alone with you, sir?”
“This is my sister and my niece,” I said. “You may speak in their presence.”
He stood stiffly, head bowed a little. When he refused to speak, I knew then that he meant what he said. I stood up and he followed me to the library, his eyes wandering over those shelves and shelves of books. I had added quite a lot to them in th
e recent past, particularly the antiquarian editions that were presented to me by dealers.
I sat at one end of the long narra reading table and asked him to sit beside me, but he merely stood, thanking me first. Then, with just the two of us, he finally spoke, softly, as if he did not want anyone else to hear.
“Severina—my mother—died last December. I had asked her so many times in the past who my father was, but she never told me. I stopped asking her after a while. Then, before she died, she told me …” He paused.
Every word sank into me, boulders in a quagmire of reverie, and a hundred immobilized memories long dispersed into the void came back alive and whole again, swamping me, drowning me.
He continued evenly, “She asked me to see you, that I must promise her I would. And now that I have seen you and have fulfilled my promise to my mother, I must go.” And with that final word, he turned and marched out of the room.
I sat there, paralyzed by emotions I could not explain or control; the revelation confirmed me, buoyed me. I have a son, a handsome grown-up son! Dr. Avecilla had examined my sperm count after the dread disease was vanquished and he said I would never be able to sire a child; that was one ravage of the disease that could not be reversed. I was therefore confident in all my liaisons, the women I had with just a finger on the telephone, the cloying attention of my cousins’ lovely daughters. I need not be responsible. But I had a son! A son, and the whole world that wonderful morning changed completely. In a while, however, I realized that the boy had walked out of my life. I rushed out of the house in my plaid silk robe and asked a bewildered Cornejo at the gate where the boy had gone. He pointed toward the main highway; in my bedroom slippers I ran in that direction, to the mélange of buses and jeepneys jostling one another to the city.
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