Riverrun

by Danton Remoto

  Mr. Nilo Perez was small and brown and rotund. When he looked up from the manuscripts piled on his desk, he reminded Emmanuel of a rat.

  In between his words he constantly sniffed: Emmanuel showed him an essay he had written in school, which he scribbled off ten minutes before class began, and which got a flat 1.0 from his teacher, to his great elation and dismay.

  Flanked by the photos of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, er, the President and the First Lady, the editor read the essay, his fingers flying over the page, then he looked at the young Emmanuel with rapturous eyes: “I like it! You know how to write. You began with a quotation. And ended with one.”

  The young Emmanuel fidgeted in his seat (God, the world is full of morons), and smiled his PR smile, the one he had practiced every day before the mirror: a wide smile that showed completely his white teeth, a smile without meaning. Ngising aso, the grin of a dog.

  And so post-haste the young Emmanuel was hired, and the next day began churning up “think pieces” for the Express. “What makes the Filipino tick?” is counterweighed the next day with an incisive essay on “The ungovernability of our race.”

  After that, letters began pouring into the Express in praise of this Wunderkind. The young Emmanuel was promoted to Editorial Writer and Assistant Ed (much to the chagrin and envy of the senior editors, bloated egos you can find in any newsroom). Thus, he was able to buy long-sleeved shirts no longer from Quiapo’s bazaars but from Escolta’s shops, and remit money every month to his mother.

  One day, the Information Minister, Gorgonio Balbacua, died. Minister Balbacua had an appetite for sex matched only by his incredible diction. On nationwide TV he was quoted: “We should wage a nationwide campaign against smut and all forms of pornography.” He pronounced smut as “smooth.” His ghost writers, a group of highly-paid brats from Manila’s most exclusive universities, had a grand time trawling polysyllables for the Boss. Asterisks became “Asterix,” labyrinthine was lost, and by the time he had reached “anthropomorphism” (delivered before a group of society matrons who raised tiger orchids for a hobby and whose avowed aim was to “Exterminate All Aphids”), the minister’s tongue was gone.

  But his ghost writers were children of the Social Register themselves, and thus, could not be fired.

  And so he just vented all frustrations on his sex life. His latest gamin was Ylang-ylang Ysmael, the lead star of that monstrous hit called Nympha. Her earlier box-office hits included Saging ni Pacing (The Banana of Pacing), Bisaklat (Spread-eagled), and Uhaw (Thirst). Ylang-ylang Ysmael had long black hair that streamed down her body like a caress, and she ruled over the dark movie houses of Manila with her voice. Low and throaty, a voice perfect for purring, for teasing, and for playing. And when the Empire of her voice began to moan, the men of Manila tugged at their zippers, pulled out their dicks, and began masturbating until the whole world shivered and exploded.

  Furious was how the President was said to be when he heard how the Information Minister had died. The Minister was in Tagaytay City, inside the villa he owned, which had an unforgettable view of Taal Volcano, a volcano within a lake within a volcano within a lake. “Imagine,” the President fumed, “dying while in the middle of sex?”

  “At least he died happy,” the wags said, buying their tabloids and horse-race guides and listening to the double entendres from the mad commentators on the am radio band.

  And so, the vacancy. The shortlisted candidates included Mr. Juan Gabuna, who was Editor-in-Chief of Asia Magazine, the continent’s finest; Professor Justiniani Culiculi, who taught at the University of the Philippines and whose posh accent never failed to remind you that indeed, he read the Classics in Oxford; and the young Emmanuel, who was the dark horse.

  Mr. Gabuna politely turned down the offer, saying he had just signed another contract with Asia Magazine for three years. Pundits proclaimed that Mr. Gabuna, who used to write prize-winning fiction in his youth, would rather edit Asia’s most elegant magazine than write fiction for the regime.

  Professor Culiculi also said no, thank you, after the Palace ruled that if he were chosen for the post, he could not bring his pet poodle Fifi into his grand office.

  And so the mantle, as the speakers would say during graduation ceremonies, fell on the young Emmanuel’s shoulders.

  He took to it gladly, like a diver plunging into cool, clear depths. He brought dynamism into the office. At least the press releases now spelled occasion correctly, the letterhead didn’t have a leaking pen for a logo, and the secretaries no longer padded around the place in their cheap Baclaran slippers.

  And when the President declared martial law, it was the young Emmanuel’s task to become an anti-perspirant and anti-deodorant rolled into one.

  “Ehem,” he said in solemn tones over a nationwide radio and TV hook-up, which we watched on the night of 23 September 1972. But he was a letdown. He just repeated the President’s words a day before, his eyes like the eyes of a statue.

  And just then, he produced a list. “Here are the names of the undesirable elements in our society. To protect the interests of the State, they had been placed in rehabilitation centers.” And he proceeded to read the names of 70,000 people, deep into the night and early morning, his voice a monotone. Every so often he would bend down and pull up his socks (a tic, someone said, because the Young Emmanuel used to go to school with rubber bands wound around the sagging bands of his socks). And sometimes, one could see a dagger of fear in those big, intelligent eyes—or could it be just sleepiness?—as his voice droned in the archipelago.

  The moment my father fell asleep in the sofa at midnight, I turned off the TV set. Young Emmanuel disappeared into the world of the idiot box, had vanished to the point of a small white dot as my weary countrymen turned off their TV sets one by one and braced themselves for another, longer, night.

  C-47

  IN THAT MOMENT floating between wakefulness and dream, I smelled the crushed garlic. Its heady, golden-brown fragrance sizzled in the morning air, and I finally tugged myself from the depths of a dream. I knew that Ludy would be frying again last night’s rice in that lake of garlic and vegetable oil, then season it with salt. Rubbing my knuckles against my eyes to wipe away the cobwebs of sleep, I stepped out of the room and saw Mama in the dining room.

  “Oy, wash your face now so we can have breakfast,” she said, wearing her sky-blue uniform.

  “Where’s Ludy?” I asked.

  “As usual, she must be taking her sweet time buying pan de sal from the Imperial’s bakery,” Mama said.

  Before she could recite a litany of other complaints, I had already gone to the bathroom. I turned the faucet on. The cold water tightened the skin on my hands. I washed my face.

  I heard the familiar sound of our jeep. I quickly dried my face, then ran to the front door and opened it.

  I reached only up to Papa’s belly, which spilled generously from his black leather belt. Too much beer, Mama would often say, in a tone hovering between a complaint and a declaration. To which Papa would only answer with a grunt.

  But this morning, when I raised my face, I saw a strange paleness in Papa’s face.

  “C’mon, Danny Boy, let’s have breakfast now. I’m in a hurry,” he said, then walked quickly to Mama. They talked briefly, in hushed tones, and then I think I heard Mama stifle a sob.

  After breakfast, Papa cleared his throat. When I looked at his eyes, I knew something was wrong.

  He said, “A C-47 crashed in Lubao an hour ago. I heard it from the commissary. The passengers are now being evacuated to the hospital.”

  When I looked at Mama, she seemed to sag in her uniform. Her eyes were lined with red. Papa stood up and turned his face away. In a bitter voice he said, “That C-47 plane should have been thrown to the junk ages ago!”

  Sweat began to break on my back, even if it was a cool morning. I ran after Papa who was already out of the house.

  As I sat beside Papa in the jeep, I felt the morning like a cold knife against my sk
in. It was already March, but the wind gusting from the Zambales mountain range made the mornings still shivery. The sun was still rising, balancing itself on the mountains. And the rest of the base was still asleep.

  We reached the main road that forked in two directions. On the left toward the green, well-trimmed lawns of the base, stood the big acacias and the white buildings. Everything in its proper place, like a memorial park. On the right, the small, well-equipped hospital. Papa stopped the jeep. I got off, intending to kiss him goodbye.

  Just then, the siren of an ambulance broke the silence of early morning. Papa and I looked to the left almost at the same time. An ambulance loomed, sped past us, then wound its way into the hospital’s driveway. It screeched to a halt before the lobby.

  Papa restarted the engine and I climbed back on the seat. In a few seconds, we reached the lobby just as the ambulance doors were beginning to open.

  A hospital attendant in green cotton uniform got out, then lifted a stretcher whose other end was carried by another attendant. I saw the face of Papa’s friend, the one who loved to play chess under the star-apple trees in our backyard, his eyes alive to the pieces on the board, plotting the moves in his mind. But now his eyes were shut tight. Around the blood-stained elbows and knees, his khaki was torn to shreds.

  “Pablo!” Papa shouted as the attendants rushed back to the ambulance. They carried a stretcher upon which lay Mrs. Medina, Mama’s friend. Her body was limp, as if all her bones were gone. Blood clotted on her white dress.

  Another ambulance siren wailed. Just then, I felt something huge and burning in my stomach. A bitter gorge rose to my throat, flooding my tongue. I shut my eyes and when I opened them, I saw my vomit through a film of tears. Papa bent down, wiped my eyes and lips quickly with his handkerchief. Then he led me away, back home.

  I had fever on and off for several days. I tried giving myself over to sleep only when my eyelids became heavy as stones. In my dreams, broken glass panes tried to hold themselves together, their patterns like cobwebs. Then when they could no longer hold back, the veins of glass finally burst, turning everything into blood …

  By day, I began reading King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, which Papa had long wanted me to read. I lost myself in the book, marking the pages where Merlin appeared. Scanning the white ceiling, I often wished I could talk to Merlin.

  Luis visited me and filled me in on the lessons I had missed. He also told me the latest funny stories in class. He would sit on the rocking chair from across my bed and talk endlessly to cheer me up, until it was time for dinner. He would then go to the kitchen, and return with a tray containing my food. He would also get another tray and take his dinner with me. My liking for Luis deepened. He was always there when I was ill, or weak, or just wanted his company. Sometimes we went to his house and climbed the fruit trees in their yard. We would just sit there, together, on the branches, eating the sun-ripened guavas, the green leaves and the blue sky embracing us.

  Luis was like my shield, my safe and secret shield.

  When I went back to school, the accident still burned on the lips of my classmates. They brought to school copies of The Manila Times, which had bannered the news on its front pages. Forty-five killed in Pampanga plane crash, the headline said. Turning away from my classmates, I thought those were mere words: They did not capture that morning’s terror.

  After the lunch break, my classmates talked about the wake. The countless stands of flowers smothered the chapel such that some of them were already left outside. A young man just stood quietly for days beside the coffin of his girlfriend, all of eighteen years. Children roamed in the chapel and the grounds, wondering aloud when would Daddy wake up. And then, my classmates talked about the dead, their faces locked in pain, this woman whose limbs were found hanging from a nearby tree, that soldier whose balls were crushed …

  Papa and Mama did not bring me to the chapel, or bring up the topic of the accident in my presence. Even Ludy had been ordered to shut up. I knew they must have slipped into the chapel when I was asleep. They must have even gone to the burial, but I never saw them grieving again, until I looked at their eyes.

  When I returned to school, my classmates badgered me about my unusual silence. They asked me if I was there in the chapel, brave enough to look at the dead.

  “No,” I answered. “I stayed at home because of my tonsillitis.”

  The Kite

  THE DAYS SLID past. The wind began to die among the acacia leaves shrouding our house. And the heat, ahhh, the heat became so fierce it gave me migraines.

  At noon, when I squinted at the sky, I could see the heat waves writhing like small, liquid snakes in the air. I just kept to myself, catching up with the lecture notes that Luis had lent me. When March came, I was quite disappointed, because I only got the Second Honors. Teresa—a tall, lovely girl with a black mole like a five-centavo coin on her right cheek—got the First Honors. Anyway, I’ll study harder in Grade Four, I thought. And besides, it’s already summer. I knew I could roam everywhere with my friends, with no thought of the next day’s classes.

  By daytime, my friends and I played with marbles the colors of a peacock’s wide-opened tail. Sometimes, my friends spun their wooden tops, and I could only stare at them with savage envy as they threw their wooden tops on the ground. The tops would spin with such grace and speed for all the world to see—wood and air and light in a blur! And then, my classmates would also lasso the tops and throw them right in the middle of their palms: The tops would still be alive and whirling.

  When I did that, my wooden top would just wobble on its tiny pointed toe, and drop dead.

  And when night fell, we had mock war battles with the boys from the other side of the river. We used slingshots for weapons. For bullets, we used clay pellets or dried papaya seeds. Luis and I always belonged to the same group. I thought of ourselves as Batman and Robin. Together, all the time. Now and forever. Sometimes, we would hide behind the trunk of the giant acacia, our bodies pressed so close together I could smell the fragrance of Safeguard soap on his skin, or feel his arm skin against mine. And then, the cicadas would begin their one-note singing, a rich, heavy sound that would sift through the trees and float to the nearby homes, warm with light and the smell of dinner. I always felt safe and invincible when I was with Luis.

  Sometimes, my friends and I played hopscotch or hide-and-seek, hiding behind the trees, in the pigsty, or near the bamboo cages inside which the chickens, disturbed, would cackle. And when the “it” chanced upon any of us, the sound of running could be heard. Shadows would break the moonlight. Then the young shrill voices would explode in the air. And in the night sky, the stars of summer shuddered.

  One afternoon, we decided to make our own kites. We teased the younger kids in the block who only knew how to make bôka-bôka, kites made of grade-school pad paper, with folded edges for wings and broomsticks for ribs. We, the older ones, used split bamboo for our kites. For the bodies and heads, we used thin papel de japon of different colors. And for the tails, long, flowing crêpe paper. Then we would glue the powdered bits of glass on the thread, so the thread could easily cut the opponents’ threads.

  “Let’s play in the field near Gate One,” Eduardo said. “I’m tired of running around in the fields behind our houses.”

  At twelve years old, he was the oldest and the biggest in our group, and therefore, the unofficial boss. This claim was confirmed in an unspoken manner early that summer, when he boasted that he had just been circumcised by Old Damaso, the barber, in the woodlands near the river. Old Damaso chewed tender guava leaves while he cut Eduardo’s foreskin with his razor blade. Afterward, the old man put his saliva around the wound, then asked Eduardo to take a plunge in the clear water. Eduardo, the now-circumcised Eduardo, also led our group in stealing the red watermelons from the fields of Mang Tomas. Sure, our parents could afford to buy those fruits. But somehow, stolen watermelons seemed sweeter. And more succulent.

  “Yes, let�
��s do that. The fields there are wider, and the wind, stronger,” said Enrique, his voice always hoarse, as if he had sung all night.

  I felt my heart beat furiously. I remembered the wreckage of the C-47 plane had been towed from its crash site to Gate One. “For investigation,” said the official reason. But my friends and I knew it was there because the people outside the base would have pried the wreckage apart, then sold it por kilo to the nearest junk dealer.

  “O, let’s go,” Luis said.

  I thought: If I don’t go with them, they’ll ask why. They’ll know and then they’d call me a sissy. “Okay, let’s go,” I heard myself say, in a full-bodied voice that seemed not to belong to me.

  The sun was hiding behind a belly of clouds when we reached the dirt road beside the fields. When the wind blew, the white feathery flowers of cogon began to ripple, like so many waves.

  “The wind here’s really stronger,” said Eduardo.

  Enrique smiled smugly, glad that he had been proven correct again.

  “O, let’s have a dogfight now!” Eduardo continued.

  “Yes, now! Now!” came their cry, which became louder and louder as they geared their kites for battle.

  I looked at my kite: a red head, blue body, and white tail. I had worked on it for two straight days, buying the materials with my own savings I had kept in an empty can of Darigold milk. I myself had cut the bamboo from the grove near the river, then split it with my father’s machete. Afterward, I whittled the wood to the shape of the kite’s ribs. When everything was ready, I pasted carefully the papel de japon on the ribs of my kite, body and bone becoming one.

  Even if I lose, I thought, I’ll still keep my kite.

  I released some line from the ball of thread in my hand. And then I ran on the dirt road, following my friends who were running ahead of me. Our shirts began to fill with the wind, like sails billowing.