The Emperor's General

by James Webb

  CHAPTER 16

  As in the case of so many true people of action, the man who was to become my father-in-law had a deceptively mild appearance. The top of Carlos Ramirez’s head did not even reach my shoulders. The tight, gnarly muscles on his arms and legs seemed actually to have bunched and wizened as he aged. He wore too much jewelry for a man. He dyed his hair so deeply black that it was clearly unnatural. His perpetual smile seemed alternately mischievous and ingratiating. Sometimes when I looked at him I imagined that the offhand smile, the gaudy rings and neck chains and gold bracelets, and even the soft, irreverent voice were all a deliberate camouflage, Carlos’s own form of belly talk. Certainly they caused many, and particularly Americans with little experience in Asia, to underestimate both his tenacity and his shrewd intellect.

  He fixed this disarming smile on me as we stood on the old round bricks of his back terrace. It was just after dusk. An hour before, a warm but heavy rain had washed over the city, cleansing the air and leaving behind a cool and windless calm. I stood blissfully next to him, at peace with the rhythms and the natural beauty of this country I had come to love. Gone for now was the dust and yearning struggle of Tokyo. On the dark waters of the small pond just across the yard, clumps of water lilies and lotus floated with a gorgeous serenity. All around us the kalachuchi bloomed, their perfume lingering in the still air like the scent of a departed lover. Lovely orchids hung open from their perches on a nearby tree. Heavy vines filled with white-flowered sampaguita made an arch above the nearby gate. I was at peace. Manila was a soothing and addictive drug.

  Carlos handed me a tumbler of warm scotch. He was wearing a loose-fitting white barong. The long-sleeved, hip-length traditional evening shirt made him appear even more diminutive as he stared up into my face. “May I say, welcome home, Jay!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ramirez. After Tokyo, I feel like I’m in heaven.”

  “Maybe soon you can return for good.”

  “Very soon, I hope. I’m a reserve officer. General MacArthur can’t keep me in Japan forever.”

  “But Divina Clara tells me you are doing very important things.”

  I smiled, flattered. “To be honest, it’s been amazing. I even sat in on a private meeting with the emperor, just last week!”

  “Hirohito himself! And tomorrow, General Yamashita, yet again.” He eyed me carefully. “So probably, the thought of coming back to Manila and working in a family business now seems boring?”

  I held his eyes, sensing that he was laying down a careful gauntlet, asking for a moment of truth. “I miss Manila. I feel like I belong here. I’m learning a lot. And I think it could be useful.”

  “You have many talents,” said Divina Clara’s father. From him, it was a grand and cherished compliment.

  Carlos Ramirez was the kind of man you would want walking close beside you if you had to enter a dark, strange alley. More to the point, he was the last person you would want to face in a dark, strange alley if he were waiting in the shadows to fight you. The little Filipino went through life like a fox terrier. He was fiercely loyal, he had no fear, and he did not know how to quit. And even though he was now fifty-five years old, only those with a death wish would have thought it a good idea to challenge Carlos Ramirez’s pride, particularly by insulting his family.

  In his younger years the boxily built native of Olongapo had often been his father’s point man in the scraps and brawls that attended their slowly expanding business ventures at Subic Bay and later in Manila. Unlike many of the Philippines’ oligarchy, whose families had made their fortunes by carefully cultivating centuries-old relations with the Spanish, the Ramirez clan had found their success only after the American navy arrived in Subic Bay at the turn of the century. And they had garnered their riches through brains, hustle, and a willingness to fight anyone—criminal gangs, political bosses, business rivals, even rogue American sailors—who stood in their way.

  It was often remembered, even in 1945, that while in his late twenties Carlos Ramirez had wielded the fastest and surest banana knife in central Luzon. And he had not been afraid to use it.

  He was measuring me carefully. As he spoke he reached up with one hand and absently touched his still-youthful forehead where an old knife scar creased it just above an eyebrow. Intentionally or not, he was pointing to a penciled memory of his own journey to success. “And you would not have a problem working for an Asian man?”

  I smiled, sensing where he was heading. “I’m going to marry an Asian woman, and I’m going to have Asian kids. Why should it bother me to work for an Asian man—as long as I respect him, that is?”

  His eyes twinkled merrily. I could tell it was the answer he had been hoping for. “A lot of Americans like our women, Jay. But not as many seem to respect our men. When Americans see us they mistake our size for weakness, I think. And because we smile they think we are afraid of them. And because we do not wear ties, they believe we lack sophistication.”

  He puffed out his chest, grinning proudly. “If I were weak, or afraid, or lacking in sophistication, I would not have made so much money trading with Americans. I would not even be living in this house.”

  “You’re far more successful than anyone in my family,” I answered honestly. “And I respect you because you and your father did it on your own.”

  In the nearby yard, the same young servant boy who had been with Divina Clara in the caratela the day I met her now stood in a white coat, methodically turning a large side of beef over an open fire pit. Inside the house, other servants were preparing dinner and setting up the bar. Carlos’s youngest son was away at school. The other two, now married, would be coming later. Mrs. Ramirez, Divina Clara, the two aunts, and the other two sisters were all upstairs, dressing and preening. Soon the dinner guests would arrive, more than twenty of the Ramirez family’s favorite friends. They were celebrating my return. Since I had indeed come back, in the mind of Carlos Ramirez it had finally become safe to announce that Divina Clara and I were engaged.

  “I would like you to work for me,” he abruptly announced. “This is not simply family. Coming from the staff of General MacArthur, I’m sure you can be very valuable to our business. We will be doing a lot of work with the American military. Also I know you could be helpful in negotiating our government construction projects.”

  “I don’t mind saying that I’m becoming a pretty skilled negotiator, sir,” I said. “I think I can really help you.”

  Carlos and I raised the scotch-filled tumblers, toasting each other. His smile now turned friendly and ironic, as if he and I were sharing the same eternal joke.

  “It will be a struggle, Jay. You should be prepared for that. If you are not one of the historic landholding families, everything is a fight in the Philippines.” He shook his head ironically. “Every day we hear about all the new changes in Tokyo, and sometimes I ask myself why there will be no change here?”

  “But there are,” I answered hesitantly. “The commonwealth is gone. The Philippines are free. On July fourth you’ll be a republic.”

  “But this is not real change. Who will run this republic?”

  I did not get a chance to answer, for his eyes had suddenly shifted behind me. A genuine smile crept across his face. He melted with unabashed pride. “Ah. She enters. I know I am her father, but have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  Following his eyes, I turned to see Divina Clara walking slowly toward us. Her sudden, shimmering appearance reminded me somehow of the night when I first saw Consuelo Trani standing underneath the frangipani tree at Tacloban. She was wearing a gold-colored sleeveless dress that caused her caramel skin almost to glow. She held her chin high, seeming self-conscious as she walked. Her thick black hair was pulled up to the top of her head, then cascaded behind her, onto her shoulders. She wore long golden earrings that seemed to frame her smooth, high cheekbones. Her eyes were warm, almost shy. She offered me an unbelieving smile as she reached us, as if it were impossible that I had actually come back s
o soon.

  She was slightly taller than her father. She leaned over and kissed him on a cheek as she reached us. Then she came smoothly to my side, brushing against me and almost covertly taking my hand.

  “I was telling Jay he should work with me when he leaves the army,” said Carlos.

  “No,” she said, chiding him, “I heard you. You were going to start in on Roxas again.”

  “Not only Roxas,” said her father abashedly. “The whole bunch of them. If Jay is going to live and work here, he’ll have to start studying Filipino politics.”

  “So, they will remain in power, Father,” she said. “And to do business we must learn to live with it.”

  “A new government,” grunted Carlos Ramirez bitterly. “A republic, they say. But it will be the same as before. Only MacArthur could have changed it, and he looked the other way. The stench of corruption still hangs over our islands.”

  She took my hand and secretly squeezed it. As she spoke I could tell that on such issues her father clearly viewed her as an intellectual equal. “MacArthur, MacArthur! He did not bring corruption to the Philippines, Father! He did not put the great families into power! They are born believing that since their great-grandfather kissed the ring of some Spanish governor they have a natural right to live above the other Filipinos.”

  “Yes,” said Carlos. “But he protected them. They collaborated with the Japanese while I and the others went to the jungles and fought as guerrillas. Now they tell the people that in a war between two foreign countries, their concern was only for the Philippines. So what did I and your brother suffer for? And what did your grandfather die for? The truth is, they will do anything to stay in power themselves. Work with the Spanish? No problem. With the Americans? Of course. With the Japanese? Certainly, if it protects their interests. Join forces with a Filipino government that desires independence? No doubt, because staying in government means they still have the votes to prevent change, and remain rich. So, independence will come, but nothing will change!”

  “I’m not saying they’re right, Father.” She was smiling indulgently at him, almost as if humoring his rampage. “The question is, why do you blame MacArthur?”

  “Because he could have stopped it,” said Carlos stubbornly. “Don’t forget that MacArthur has many years in these islands. So long that in many ways he has become Filipino. He and Roxas might as well be brothers! MacArthur told the people when he returned that he would run to earth and punish every single disloyal Filipino who had aided the enemy! Again and again he said that! But then he found out that most of them were his longtime friends!” He shrugged as if helpless. “That is the Philippines. Different rules for friends.”

  “Then we must find our own friends. Father. It does no good to hold such bitterness over something you cannot change!”

  “Stop arguing with me, Divina Clara.” Carlos was pretending irritation, but on one level he was showing off Divina Clara’s knowledge, basking in her wisdom. “I’m beginning to think it was a mistake to send you to the Jesuits for all these years of training.”

  Now he looked at me, feigning complete frustration. “How will you ever be able to live with a woman with such education, who argues so decisively, Jay?”

  I smiled. She squeezed my hand again. “I will become her student, sir. She knows far more than I do.”

  He paused for a moment, then elbowed me playfully. “Do you know General Whitney?”

  “I work with him every day.”

  “He has many, many investments here in the Philippines, and many friends among the old-line families. Whitney has great influence with MacArthur, too. So, think about this. When Quezon and MacArthur escaped from Corregidor to Australia, Roxas took the gold bullion reserves of our country and hid them in a secret place. Many, many millions of dollars. Has anyone seen this gold since? No! But Roxas knows where it is. And Whitney is a big supporter of Roxas. Maybe Roxas and Whitney have made a secret, complicated deal!”

  I shook my head, instinctively disagreeing with Carlos. In October 1945 the Philippines were rife with rumors of what had happened to the lost gold. It had come up in almost every conversation since I landed. To some it was MacArthur’s gold. To others it was Yamashita’s. More than likely it was indeed Roxas’s, or it was lost. But Whitney?

  “General Whitney doesn’t have that power, Mr. Ramirez.”

  “Your opinion is important to me, but probably uninformed.” Divina Clara’s father was almost mandarin in his obtuseness. “You are only a small officer on MacArthur’s staff. I don’t think you understand Whitney’s power.”

  “Father,” she interrupted commandingly. “Stop it. It does no good.”

  “And so Divina Clara is right, as usual!” He raised his tumbler in a mock toast, winking to me conspiratorially. “To Roxas and his rich, spoiled, traitorous compadres! We must learn to live with them. Until the moment comes that we can destroy them.”

  “Father!”

  “Just kidding.” But the knowing smile on his face told me that deep in his heart he was not kidding. He fixed me with yet another sly look. “We also read that General MacArthur and the emperor have become good friends?”

  “They are working together,” I said vaguely.

  “They will become good friends. After all, that is MacArthur’s way,” said Carlos vaguely.

  “He has great responsibilities,” I replied.

  Carlos patted me encouragingly on a shoulder, as if my answer had pleased him. “A very wise answer. You are loyal, Jay. I respect that.”

  We stood quietly for a while, sipping scotch and watching the servant boy laboring over the beef. Divina Clara softly rubbed a hand along my back and then put it around my shoulder. Watching the silent messages that went back and forth between us, Carlos beamed with a possessive happiness. Finally he reached out and took one of our elbows in each of his small, scarred hands, turning us toward each other in a gesture that indicated his full approval.

  “I think I will check on your mother,” he said.

  “She’s probably watching from the window,” laughed Divina Clara. We all looked up. Mrs. Ramirez was indeed just above us, her arms folded contentedly across her chest, surveying us from one of the upstairs bedroom windows.

  “Then I think I will go close the window,” panned the smiling Carlos. And he walked slowly into the house.

  We were standing very near to each other. She needed no perfume because the air was filled with it. Out in the yard the servant boy grinned widely, trying not to watch us as he slowly turned the side of beef. Holding my hand in both of hers, she pulled me slowly toward her until she had pressed it secretly against the top of her thighs, all the while never taking her eyes off my own.

  “What I have been thinking—is that I would live anywhere with you,” she finally said.

  “We could live anywhere, but I would like to stay in Manila and work with your family,” I answered. “If it’s all right with you.” We were saying a lot of things in a very few words.

  She began staring deeply into all the parts of my face and neck, as if reading me. “I forgot what you looked like.”

  “But it’s only been six weeks.”

  “So you see, Jay, that’s the brutality of a soldier’s view of things. Six weeks is—fifteen percent of the time we’ve been together! And how much longer will we have to wait?”

  She was partly joking, but I heard an unusual urgency in her voice. I began to wonder if she was noticing some undeniable, telltale glint of shame in my eyes, or feeling some vague, apologetic tension in my body. “Not much longer, Divina Clara. Certainly by Christmas.”

  “Christmas!” she said. “Three more months?” She thought about that for a moment, then put her head into my chest. “So much can happen in three months.”

  Something was indeed bothering her, but I could not tell what it was. I pressed her into me, daring to kiss her on the top of her head despite the hidden stares that I knew were coming from the windows behind me. “We’re almost hal
fway there, Divina Clara. See how fast it goes?”

  “No, I don’t, actually.” She looked up into my face again. “What do you like best about Japan?”

  Her question made me nervous. “I can’t think of anything.”

  “You have to tell me something.”

  I teased her, grinning with remembrance. “Is this one of your tests?”

  “I told you, tests are never obvious. Tell me something. What is it that you like best about Japan?”

  “The thing I like best about Japan is—that being away from you makes me understand how much I really love you.”

  She punched me playfully. She was happy again, and there was a cleverness in her smile. “That isn’t an answer, it’s a deflection. Although it was a sweet thought. But you have to tell me. I know you like some part of Japan because I see more power in your face, and in the way you stand. You’ve become stronger!”

  I marveled at her intuitive genius, that she could know me so completely that by looking into my face and frame she could tell how much the past six weeks had changed me. And her probing was neither a guess nor a ploy. Divina Clara simply possessed that certainty. It was a part of who she was, just as some men could read a trail and know where an ambush might occur, and others could anticipate a baseball’s trajectory the moment a bat began to swing.

  “They’ve trusted me,” I finally said, for the first time having to consider it myself. “MacArthur and the others. They’ve sent me off on important missions. I watched General Wainwright cry when MacArthur forgave him. I was at the Bessang Pass when Yamashita surrendered. I’ve met with the emperor of Japan. I’ve negotiated with his closest advisers. Me, can you believe it? I was on the airplane, in the car, aboard the ship. I’ve been in the room, Divina Clara. The private room, where only the giants gather. I’ve seen history, even before it was made!”

  She watched my face, studying it again. “Do you want to have children soon?”

  I had been in a reverie, surrounded by self-adulation. Her question was like a pin, plucking my balloon. “Where did that come from?”