PRAISE FOR F. SIONIL JOSÉ
“The foremost Filipino novelist in English, his novels deserve a much wider readership than the Philippines can offer. His major work, the Rosales Saga, can be read as an allegory for the Filipino in search of an identity.”
—IAN BURUMA, The New York Review of Books
“America has no counterpart … no one who is simultaneously a prolific novelist, a social and political organizer, an editor and journalist, and a small-scale entrepreneur.… As a writer, José is famous for two bodies of work. One is the Rosales sequence, a set of five novels published over a twenty-year span which has become a kind of national saga.… José Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere, published in Spanish (despite its Latin title) in the late nineteenth century, was an influential Uncle Tom’s Cabin-style polemic about Spanish rule. The Rosales books are a more literarily satisfying modern equivalent.”
—JAMES FALLOWS, The Atlantic
“One of the [Philippines’] most distinguished men of letters.”
—Time
“Marvelous.”
—PETER BACHO, The Christian Science Monitor
“[José] never flattens his characters in the service of rhetoric.… Even more impressive is José’s ability to tell important stories in lucid, but never merely simple prose.… It’s refreshing to see a politically engaged Writer who dares to reach for a broader audience.”
—LAURA MILLER, San Francisco Weekly
“Tolstoy himself, not to mention Italo Svevo, would envy the author of this story.… This short … scorching work whets our appetite for Sionil José’s masterpiece, the five-novel Rosales Saga.”
—JOSEPH COATES, Chicago Tribune
“The literary work of José is inseparable from the modern politics and history of the Philippines.”
—Le Monde
“José’s writing is simple and direct, appearing deceptively unsophisticated at times. But the stories ring true, and taken together, they provide a compelling picture of the difficulties of modern life and love in this beleaguered island nation.”
—STEVE HEILIG, San Francisco Chronicle
“[José] is the only writer who has produced a series of novels that constitutes an epic imaginative creation of a century of Philippine life … a rich, composite picture.”
—LEOPOLDO Y. YABES, Contemporary Novelists
“[José is] one of the best and most active writers of contemporary Philippine literature in English.… [H]is stories are moving portraits of Philippine society.”
—JOSEPH A. GALDON, S.J., Philippine Studies
“In Filipino literature in recent years, the creative work of Francisco Sionil José occupies a special place.… José is a great artist.”
—IGOR PODBEREZSKY, Institute of Oriental Studies, Moscow
“The reader of this slim volume of well-crafted stories will learn more about the Philippines, its people, and its concerns than from any journalistic account or from a holiday trip there. José’s book takes us to the heart of the Filipino mind and soul, to the strengths and weaknesses of its men, women, and culture.”
—LYNNE BUNDESEN, Los Angeles Times
“Sionil José has the ability to write evocatively … his descriptions of the rural environment have an intense glow and a lyrical shine … truly an emancipated stylist, an interpreter of character and analyst of society.”
—ARTHUR LUNDKVIST, The Swedish Academy, Stockholm
“[José is] an outstanding saga writer. If ever a Nobel Prize in literature will be awarded to a Southeast Asian writer, it will be to F. Sionil José.”
—The Mainichi Shimbun (Tokyo)
“Considered by many to be Asia’s most likely candidate for the Nobel Prize for literature.”
—The Singapore Straits Times
“F. Sionil José could become the first Filipino to win the Nobel Prize for literature … he’s a fine writer and would be welcome recognition of cultural achievement in his troubled country. [He] is widely known and acclaimed in Asia.”
—JOHN GRIFFIN, The Honolulu Advertiser
“[José] captures the spirit of his country’s sullen and corrupt bureaucracy [and] tells the readers far more about Philippine society than many, far lengthier works of nonfiction.”
—STEVE VINES, South China Morning Post (Hong Kong)
“The plot [of Ermita] is unfolded by concise, vividly picturesque, sometimes humorous, often tender prose. The candor with which Sionil fleshes out his sensuous earthy characters is balanced by his breathtakingly surgical dissection of their minds and souls.”
—NINA ESTRADA, Lifestyle Asia
“José is one of Asia’s most eminent writers and novelists. His passionate, sometimes transcendent writings illuminate contemporary Filipino life in graceful and historically anchored narratives of power brokers and the brokered, of landowners and the indentured.”
—SCOTT RUTHERFORD, Islands Magazine
“He has achieved a unity in his writings such as that seen in William Faulkner in his stories relating to Yoknapatawpha County in Mississippi or in the Monterey stories of John Steinbeck.”
—DOUGLAS LECROY, St. Louis University Research Journal
Dusk is a work of fiction. The characters and events are products of the author’s imagination. Where actual historical persons or incidents are mentioned, their context is entirely fictional.
Copyright © 1984, 1987, 1992 by F. Sionil José
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Originally published, in English, as Po-on by Solidaridad Publishing House, in Manila, Philippines.
The first chapter originally appeared as the short story “The Cripples” in The God Stealer (Quezon City, Philippines: R. P. Garcia Publishing Company, 1968).
MODERN LIBRARY and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
José, F. Sionil (Francisco Sionil)
[Po-on]
Dusk: a novel / F. Sionil José.
p. cm.
Originally published: Po-on. Manila, Philippines: Solidaridad
Pub. House, [c1984]
eISBN: 978-0-307-83030-2
1. Philippines—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9550.9.J67P6 1998
823—dc21 97-39435
Modern Library website address: www.modernlibrary.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Notes on the Writing of Dusk (Po-on)
A Word to the Reader
Part One Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Two Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Glossary
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
NOTES ON THE
WRITING OF
DUSK (PO-ON)
When people ask me which of my novels I like best, I always reply, you are asking me which of my seven children I love most.
My Japanese translator, Matsuyo Yamamoto, thinks Tree is the mos
t evocative. The poet and critic Ricaredo Demetillo thinks My Brother, My Executioner is the most dramatic and Tree the dullest. It is really difficult for me to say which is what, but this I can say: Mass is the book I enjoyed writing most, because I wrote it straight from beginning to end in one creative spurt. Besides, I wrote it in Paris.
My daughter Jette, who is my editor, thinks Dusk (original title, Po-on) is the best. Po-on, which means “the beginning” or “tree trunk” in my native Ilokano, is the first in terms of chronology.
Of the five Rosales novels, Dusk took the longest to write—more than three decades. I had great difficulty, for it meant research into our past, the period from the early 1870s to 1898 and the Battle of Tirad Pass, the same period during which the Spanish regime was vanquished and the Americans took over. Dusk is simply the story of a family, or rather of a peace-loving man who led his clan in its flight from the narrow coastal plain of the Ilokos in Northern Luzon to the Central Plains. It is also a story of Spanish tyranny, and the Filipino response to it and to the American intrusion into our islands after the Spaniards left. The man who leads this hegira is the grandfather of Antonio Samson in The Pretenders, published in 1962, the first of the five Rosales novels. Four others followed: Tree; My Brother, My Executioner; Mass; and Po-on (Dusk).
All five novels may be read independently of one another, but all are linked, not so much by recurring characters as by their origins in a small Central Luzon town called Rosales. The name is incidental; Rosales can very well be any town in the Philippines. And running through all five novels are the basic themes that have always interested me as a writer: man’s continuing search—often futile, often hopeless—for social justice and a moral order.
It is in Dusk where I define the patriot and hero. I do this at a time when heroes in the Philippines are movie stars and socialites turned politicians, soldiers who have betrayed the Constitution, and even returning widows with three thousand pairs of shoes.
The two major characters in Dusk are my fictional rendition of Apolinario Mabini, who in real life was the ideologue of the revolution against Spain, and Eustaquio Samson, the young acolyte who flees from the Ilokos with his whole clan.
Both heroes come from the lower classes. Mabini was lucky enough to escape his rural origins and come to Manila to study law. He was very bright and morally upright. Aguinaldo, the president of the First Republic, picked him to be his first foreign minister. He was, however, ousted from his position by the wealthy ilustrados who surrounded Aguinaldo and betrayed the revolution. According to Ambeth Ocampo, a young, fastidious historian, they concocted a plan to milk the fledgling republic, but Mabini’s ethical and ideological principles foiled them. They spread the gossip that Mabini was a cripple because he was syphilitic, an untruth that I had swallowed and presented as fact in this novel. In 1988, his bones were exhumed and it was discovered that he had had polio. The succeeding editions of Po-on bear this correction and my deepest apology.
How do we fight the traitors, the charlatans who use the nationalist guise and pontificate to us in the media?
I learned a lot about Mabini and the revolution from scholars. In 1958 I met historian Cesar Adib Majul shortly after his return from the United States, where he did his Ph.D. dissertation on Apolinario Mabini. When I told him that evening that I am from Rosales, he said that Mabini had stayed in my hometown for a few weeks for a rest cure before he fled to nearby Cuyapo, Nueva Ecija, where he was captured by the Americans.
I had already started writing the Rosales novels and had designed the sequence and the themes. I knew then that I had to use Mabini and his presence in my hometown as the core incident in Dusk.
Unfortunately, neither Professor Majul nor the other noted Philippine historian, Teodoro Agoncillo, knew the circumstances of Mabini’s stay in Rosales. I went back to my hometown and tried to dig up records—they were either nonexistent to begin with or had been destroyed or lost. In the town municipio and the Catholic church, I couldn’t find a trace of Mabini. I therefore deduced that he must have stayed with the leading ilustrado family at the time, the Pines, because they had the most imposing house.
The story of the Samsons who fled from the Ilokos bears personal meaning for me because I was also writing about my forebears, who came from a town called Cabugaw in Ilokos Sur. They settled in a village in Pangasinan that they named Cabugawan after the town from where they came.
I grew up in this village, listened to the stories of the elders about their flight from the north, the revolution against Spain. My forebears were very nationalistic and deeply religious as well. Most of all, I grew up with the knowledge of their suffering in the new land, their exploitation by the landlords, and the eventual dispossession of their lands. I also knew of the hardiness of their spirit, the dreams they shared, the angers that made them endure.
At the turn of the century, there were still no roads in much of Northern Luzon; there were a few stretches that were cobbled, remains of which may still be seen. Transport was usually on horseback, or on bull carts over rutted trails. The Ilokano carts had solid wooden wheels and were drawn either by bulls (there were many cattle ranches in the grassy foothills of the Cordilleras) or carabaos. The carts were covered with buri palm roofing. I saw some of these carts traveling the dirt roads of eastern Pangasinan in the thirties. As in the earlier part of this century, they usually carried Ilokano farmers from the north to eastern Pangasinan to glean the harvested fields or to help in the harvest. Land shortage in the Ilokos was basically responsible for this annual hegira.
The Ilokanos brought with them raw cotton, handwoven cloth, smoking and chewing tobacco, jars of cane wine, sugar, furniture, and in some instances, jewelry. They were prey to tulisanes, and this was one reason they traveled in groups.
Sometimes they returned to the Central Plains to settle. They would then usually carry all their worldly goods, the uprooted posts of their houses in the Ilokos, their santos and wooden chests, the weaving looms, all their farm implements and work animals.
These caravans often went all the way to Cagayan Valley, on the Santa Fe Trail (now Dalton Pass). Many of the settlers were not just land hungry; they were also fleeing Spanish tyranny. They were the pioneers who cleared much of eastern Pangasinan, Nueva Ecija, and the Cagayan Valley. These settlers were called the mal vivir or the agraviados. It should be remembered that as late as 1899, part of the big town of San Carlos, Pangasinan, was still jungle.
The merchants who took to the road, however, were different from the farmers. Most of them were Pangasiñenses, and carried provisions and produce they sold or bartered for grain. These were sugar cakes, sometimes made out of the sap of the buri palm, sweet preserves from pomelo rind, alamang (shrimp paste), salted and dried fish, twine, plowshares, bolos. There was much blacksmithing in Pangasinan then.
There was a lot of intermarriage between the Pangasinan traders and their Ilokano customers. The Pangasinan merchants did not come in long caravans; sometimes they came in just two or three bull carts. A merchant with a couple of bull carts would simply park in a village or town square until he was able to dispose of his goods. Much of this traffic was in the dry season, during harvest, and it ended before the rains started in May.
Another group of traders plied the byways of Northern Luzon. They were the Igorots, who came down from the Cordillera and Caraballo ranges to sell rattan baskets. Their presence was announced by the howling of dogs in the neighborhood because they brought with them packs of dogs tied by their necks to rigid bamboo poles so that it would be easier to manage them. They usually accepted dogs in exchange for their goods. Even then, we knew the dogs would be eaten. In my boyhood, dog meat was not very popular, the way it is today. The Igorots were called Bagos and they were always in G-strings. Seldom were they accompanied by their women.
In re-creating these people I have also tried to illustrate how little the times and the people have changed.
The last chapter is a rendering of the Battle of Tirad Pas
s. By the time I was ready to write this chapter, I had already read a lot not just on the battle itself but on the Americans and the insurrectos they fought. I was, for instance, surprised to see in pictures that most of the Filipino soldiers were barefoot. They were farmers, laborers, just as the enlisted men in our armed forces today come from the lower classes. It was difficult getting exact information on how the soldiers lived, their supplies, their arms. I also decided early in the gestation of the novel to visit Mount Tirad, in the Cordilleras in Northern Luzon. The opportunity came soon enough when I learned that the mother of Ambassador Delia Albert, a friend in our foreign service, lived in the town of Salcedo, which is in the foothills of Mount Tirad.
In the novel, Eustaquio Samson goes to Tirad from Rosales to guide President Aguinaldo and his men through the Cordillera range into the Cagayan Valley. They are pursued by the Texas Rangers. That battle high up in the clouds resembles Thermopylae, how a band of sixty Filipinos—all of them from Bulacan—delayed the American pursuers. In the battle, the boy general Gregorio del Pilar and forty-eight of his men are killed.
I went to Mount Tirad in early January. The time was ideal; the weather was cool—Siberian headwinds in the atmosphere. My wife, Teresita, was with me. Before Candon, a big town in Ilokos Sur, we turned right toward the mountains, on a dirt road that was quite manageable in the beginning but turned tortuous as we ascended the low hills. It was easy to imagine how horrible it must be to maneuver along the road during the rainy season, when it becomes a rivulet of mud. Mrs. Domingo, Delia’s mother, said she had managed to get the Ministry of Public Works to release some funds to improve the road way back, but when she returned from a long trip, expecting that the road had been repaired, she was surprised to find it was the same, that the money was lost somewhere along the way, perhaps in the pockets of officials either in the Ilokos or in Manila.
We reached Salcedo in about forty-five minutes—a small town, really, apparently untouched by business and pollution. The main street ran through the usual conglomerate of Ilokano homes. Some of the roads had been paved through the efforts of the people themselves. The municipal building was a humble wooden edifice, as was the small market by its side. The town, unlike most Filipino towns, had electricity, and there was running water from the springs that gushed out of the hillsides.
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