Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks)

by F. Sionil Jose

  In the kitchen, one of the boys was already snoring. Beside Istak, the softness of Dalin. Lifting the rough blanket which covered her, his hand slid up from her smooth, flat belly to her breasts. They were firm still in spite of two breastfed babies. She turned onto her side, breathing on his face, and laid an arm around his chest. Outside, in the corral the calf was mooing and a night breeze stirred in the bamboo grove beyond the house. The air smelled of harvest, of the good earth.

  “I wonder what he wants,” Istak said softly.

  “It is an honor,” Dalin said, “when someone like him needs you. It could be dangerous, too.”

  “He told me that.” He quickly remembered.

  “And we are small people, Old Man,” she reminded him.

  Istak did not speak. Long ago he had learned how to live with his smallness. This woman beside him made him strong, his fate more bearable.

  In the morning, at her urging, he had a breakfast of coffee, fried rice, and roasted dried venison. Dalin told him he would be uncomfortable before the Cripple; he would be so self-conscious of his manners that he would not be able to take two mouthfuls.

  Don Jacinto met him in the wide sala. The sun was already up, yet the house seemed dark but for the shine of the hardwood floor and the mirrors on the walls.

  “Apolinario is really impressed, Eustaquio,” the cabeza said, beaming. “And I did not know you could speak Latin.” He slapped Istak affectionately on the shoulder.

  He was ushered into the room of the guest. The Cripple was not there; he had been transported to the nearby azotea, which was now flooded with the morning sun, brilliant on the potted palmettos, on the red tile floor.

  The Cripple was still pale. Beads of perspiration clung to his brow. The cook came with their breakfast in trays and Don Jacinto left them. The Cripple’s food—upon Istak’s order—was now almost without salt, and he grimaced as he ate the broiled fish and fried rice.

  “As you can see, Eustaquio,” he said, “I am a very good patient.” He took the glass of light brown liquid and drank all of it.

  “I feel better,” he continued. “And my urine, it was clearer this morning. I drank four glasses last night.”

  The Cripple turned and picked up two lead pencils and a beautiful new notebook beside the food tray. “I hear you don’t accept payment—so take these. You are a teacher. You need them.”

  As Dalin had said, Istak had difficulty eating even with the Cripple’s continued urging. He had never used table napkins before or the silver that the Cripple was using, although he had seen them in the sacristy.

  “It is your kidneys, I suspect, Apo,” Istak said. “They are probably not working well and what you are drinking merely helps clean them. I am not sure it can do everything if the damage is serious. I am not a doctor, Apo.”

  “In the absence of one, you are heaven-sent,” the Cripple said. “And since you are my doctor now, I will tell you frankly what I fear.” The Cripple beckoned to him to come close so that he could listen better. Now his voice became softer, as if revealing a horrendous secret. “You must keep this to yourself. Will you promise that, Eustaquio?”

  “Yes, Apo.” He had emptied his cup and felt invigorated; the coffee was real.

  “When I was young”—the Cripple’s face was now dark with gloom—“I had this terrible fever. I was so weak, I could hardly move. It lasted but a few days and when it left, I thought I was finally well, except for my legs. They felt numb. I tried to rise but couldn’t. After I had eaten, I thought I would be stronger. When I finally had sufficient strength, my legs could not support me. I was so surprised and sad—I cried when I fully realized that I had become a cripple. But not here!” He laid a hand on his breast. “And here”—he gestured to his head. “I had medical care, of course, but I think I went to the doctor too late and so I am like this. Which is just as well. You see, the Spaniards found it too much of a bother to imprison a cripple. They thought that I would not be able to do them any harm. They let me live, but my friends—well, they were all shot at the Luneta.”

  Istak listened intently. He had heard so many of these stories in the past, he bore witness to what was done to him and his father. Then they took his brother, too, as if his brother’s life were forfeit and his more important, reserved for some design that was not for him to know, just as the Cripple was saved from the firing squad.

  “I am happy that you are here with us, Apo,” Istak said.

  “But you pity me because I cannot walk,” the Cripple said, his face brightening. “Let me tell you a secret—while these two legs are useless, the third leg is still sturdy but unused!” Istak looked at the thin wasted legs. Yes, it would be a miracle if the Cripple could walk again. Istak grinned; the Cripple was not made of stone; he knew how to laugh. But then, the Cripple suddenly raised his hand and brought it down hard on the table, rattling the silver and the plates. “Oh, that I were not like this, imprisoned in this damaged body. If only I could use my legs!”

  The sudden irruption vanished quickly. “It would be a miracle, Eustaquio, if I walked again?”

  Istak did not answer. He tried to recall what was in the medical encyclopedia that Padre Jose had in the library and which he often read.

  “I am not optimistic anymore. But then—” A scowl came over the Cripple’s face, his eyes suddenly blazed. “¡Sin vergüenza!” he cursed softly. “And do you know what my enemies spread about mc? Those wealthy mestizos who ingratiated themselves with the president? To destroy mc, who exposed their perfidy and stood in their path, they spread the rumor that I had syphilis. Syphilis—it damages not just the body but the brain! No, they did not say it bluntly, to my face and hearing. They insinuated it, hinted at it. In this, I couldn’t confront them, fight them. The people close to mc, they knew it was a lie. That behind this is nothing more than greed and, perhaps, envy. I never aspired to wealth, Eustaquio. So I can look any man in the eye. Remember this, Eustaquio. Remember this.”

  Istak had finished the hard-boiled egg, the fried rice from Don Jacinto’s kitchen much tastier than what he had at home; it was fried with pork fat and had bits of onion and garlic.

  “I would have peace of mind if I were you, Apo,” Istak said. “Just use less salt.” He leaned forward and pressed the flesh in the Cripple’s forearm. The indentation left by his thumb lingered.

  “You have a little edema,” Istak said. “I really think it is your kidneys.”

  The Cripple grinned again—the happiness spreading across his pinched, pallid face. It was the first time Istak had seen him so pleased, the melancholy eyes dancing with laughter.

  “What else can you do, Eustaquio? You speak Spanish, Latin—both very well. And you are a healer like no herbolario I have ever seen. What are you really or what do you want to be?”

  “I am a poor farmer, Apo,” Istak said.

  “No, you are not just a farmer,” the Cripple said. “In the past, surely, you must have wanted to be something else.”

  So it was; Cabugaw again, the old church, the stone belfry and the bats that roosted in the eaves, the booming clap of bells in his ears and old Padre Jose telling him to read as much as he could, for the world was open only to those who could read and this skill was the most precious gift that any teacher could give.

  “I had a teacher, Apo,” Istak said with a touch of sadness. “I wanted to be a priest, to be like him, knowing so much and imparting it all to others.”

  “And why did you not become one?”

  Istak turned away. “I am an Indio, Apo,” he said simply.

  The Cripple leaned forward, his eyes ablaze. “You can still be one if you want to, Eustaquio. Bishop Aglipay has founded the Filipino Church. It is very strong and it is all ours. No Spanish friars ordering us. And we are not subservient to Rome. We must build this church not only because it is ours but because we must have a continuing faith in God. My mother wanted me to be a priest, too. So you are not really alone.

  “Do you really believe in God?” the
Cripple asked after some silence. “This was a belief you got from the Spaniards, no matter how kindly they may have looked upon you.”

  For some time, Istak could not speak, although it would have been so easy to affirm his faith. He had prayed as a matter of habit when he ministered to the sick, a prayer which those who were healed thought had curative powers in itself. He had not tried to correct the impression, for who really knew what prayer could do? There was this power he held, power which was not really his but Someone else’s. Yet, there were times when he doubted the existence of a just and merciful God, and now that it was put to him bluntly, now that he must open up his own mind to himself, he realized with some sorrow and apprehension that his belief was not as steadfast as it once had been and that if given the chance he would not now want to be a priest. Was it all Dalin’s doing?

  “I do what I think is right, Apo,” Istak said.

  “You are not answering my question.”

  “I doubt, Apo,” he said quickly. “And I am ashamed that I do.”

  “No, no, Eustaquio!” The Cripple shook his head emphatically. “You doubt, you think—have you forgotten the old injunction? What did the Spaniards say about us? That we are children, without minds, that we can easily be led. This is what the Americans are saying, too. This is what they are telling the world. That we cannot manage our affairs, that we do not deserve to be free. A nation which has people who can think, that nation already has strength. It is the mind which rules, Eustaquio—not instinct or habit.”

  Long after they had parted, the Cripple’s words burned in Istak’s mind. In their next encounter, he would have more reasoned-out replies not only to his inquisitor but—he now realized—to himself. He went to his bangcag, the life-giving well, to the guardian of the earth, to draw from them the knowledge that seemed to have ebbed. It had pleased him, of course, to use Spanish, and a bit of Latin again, to argue in a language that was not his and find that desuetude had not dulled his mind, that he could still express himself fully in it, although, at times, the words shaped slowly. He brought to mind how he once told Padre Jose that he was tormented by doubts and the old priest had tweaked his ears, reminding him that there are questions of faith which have no answers, for the ways of God are immutable and imponderable. Istak had believed; he had wakened in the mornings, smelling real coffee brewing in the kitchen. He had lingered, too, at the belfry when he tolled the Angelus and from that pinnacle, watched the west burn with the dying day, the whole rim of the world ablaze with dazzling reds that turned to purples, voluptuous forms or ogre shapes obscured with the onrushing night. Only God could paint these.

  The guava tree had borne fruit and the well was full and flowing ceaselessly into the bamboo conduits that carried the gift of life to the seed. He would bring some of the fruits to his patient and boil some of the young leaves in water from the well. Mushrooms had also sprouted in the pit where he had stacked the dead trunks of bananas and hay, and he filled his fish basket with them. The Cripple would like a tasty meal even if there was no salt in it.

  He had never taken care of anyone before with whom he was as involved as he was now. Although it had given him immense satisfaction to hear the Cripple tell of his improvement, Istak was not sure that he was doing right, he was not even sure that the Cripple’s old ailment was completely cured. It was in moments like this that uncertainty badgered him, that the hunger for more knowledge became more acute.

  Would he raise his sons, for instance, the way he was—full of questions? This early, the older boy, Antonio, had already shown intelligence and a questioning spirit. He had taught the boy the cartilla and he could read just enough Spanish for a nine-year-old to absorb. Istak regretted most that he had no books here; in Cabugaw, there had been the Augustinian texts, the literature and science of Europe. Now that he had shared the rich man’s food, perhaps, Don Jacinto could lend him some of his books.

  All this was in his mind the evening he returned to town with his medications. This time, however, the Cripple did not bother him with questions; he offered Istak a job instead.

  In the azotea again. Across the wide expanse of grass the balete tree was ignited by a thousand fireflies, and beyond the old tree, the orange lights of several homes flickered. The evening was cool; it would be December soon and the bracing winds from the mountains would veer down to the plain.

  The Cripple had finished his supper. He had also drunk the concoction which Istak had brought in a bamboo tube but that was now in a glass pitcher. The Aladdin lamp was lighted and its luminous glow reached out to them.

  The Cripple was pensive, his eyes on the far distance, the pith of darkness. “I have difficult days ahead, Eustaquio. I am depressed by the way the war is being fought, and now, all these personal problems, too. As you very well know, Cayo, my secretary, is not well. He is in Balungaw with my servant, in the hot springs there, recuperating from this fever and I don’t know how long he will be there. Thank God, it is not the pox. I need someone to transcribe what I have written, to remember the things that I say. Your Spanish is polished—as if you grew up with the language. Do you have difficulty recalling it?”

  “Yes, Apo,” Istak said.

  “You will do. And as for Tagalog, it Does not matter that you don’t speak it. You can learn enough so that you will understand what I automatically say sometimes.”

  This kind of work was beyond his expectations. He should forget the dream but in his heart he was glad that the Cripple saw value in him still. But what was this votive flame that was drawing him closer to this cause that led men to their graves? Would he eventually be singed by it, would it scorch all the allegiances of the blood?

  “What are your feelings toward the language of our masters, which we have learned? Does it give you a sense of pride? Of being equal to them?” the Cripple suddenly asked.

  It had never occurred to him this way. Language was a window through which he could see—as Padre Jose had said, and indeed, he saw so much, learned so much. But how was he to explain this now? He turned to the side of the room where the bookshelves were. All those books were in Spanish, and perhaps, a couple or so in Ilokano.

  “I have made their language mine, Apo,” Istak said finally. “And with it, I am able to speak with you, to Don Jacinto—but to my relatives, my wife, I have to speak in my own tongue, which I love no less.”

  The Cripple smiled, that cryptic smile that could be mistaken for cynicism. “And I have to write in Spanish, and this then will have to be translated into English by our friends in Hong Kong. English, the language of our enemy—so that it can then be spread to many corners of the earth. To reach our own people, we have to use the language of foreigners. But someday we will be able to talk with everyone in a language that is our own. Yes, Eustaquio—there is so much the world does not know, how the Americans have tortured our people, committed the most brutal crimes against humanity. And yet, read their own constitution—how civilized and humanitarian it is. Yes, we have so much to tell everyone.”

  The Cripple paused as if a heavy cloak of weariness had descended upon him. “And Luna is dead. Only he really understood how the war should be fought by men lacking arms but not spirit. Everyone can help in this war, Eustaquio. Do you understand?”

  Istak bowed. “I am just a poor farmer, Apo.” His voice did not rise above a whisper.

  Perhaps, had the Cripple been able to, he would have risen quickly. He jolted himself upright, instead, his voice leaping, his eyes burning: “You are not a poor farmer! You are Eustaquio Samson—is that not your name? And you are a Filipino with a good head—this I recognize as you should recognize it, too. And this is what has always been wrong with us—yes, the Spaniards have succeeded in humiliating us, always they are the superior teachers—we the inferior pupils! Whatever we do that is honest and good, we must be proud of it. We must not be subservient to anyone, not you to me, as I have never been to anyone. In me, in you—in all of us is dignity. We should stand bravely because we are citizens of
a sovereign nation no matter how weak that nation. We are Filipinos now, do you understand, Eustaquio?”

  Istak did not move. The words swirled around him, engulfed him, lifted him off his feet. No one had ever spoken to him like this before; his parents had always stressed obedience, hard work, and Padre Jose—for all his goodness, what did he din into him but piety, love, respect, duty—how they differed from Mabini’s thralling call to pride.

  “Yes, Apo,” Istak said.

  “You do not know it,” the Cripple continued equably. “I am no longer an official in our government. What I do now I do as a duty, not to the president but to Filipinas. Our motherland, she is bigger than any of us, and we must serve her, and serving her means serving you and everyone who is Filipino. Even now, President Aguinaldo is fleeing from the Americans, just as I am hiding here, unable to run. He has a weak, undisciplined army—what is left of it—led by General Tinio. He will be safe. But the Americans will surely capture me—I don’t know when they will come or when I will be betrayed, just as I don’t know when they will catch up with the president. Some say that everything is lost, that all we can do now is run and hide, but we can still wage war from the mountains, from the swamps, where they cannot reach us. We know the folds of the hills, the depths of the muck—they don’t. But even if the war is lost, even if there is an American pointing a gun at each one of us, we must continue to oppose this new master till Filipinas is free.”