Understand what, the anthill rumbled from its bowels.
Understand that it was a ridiculous thought at the time, though it was nevertheless true that Old Andy crawled out of World War II’s second most devastated city with the means to build an empire. True though his waterfront house had collapsed into blackened bits of wood and loose roofing sheets and he was weeping bitterly as he sifted through the rubble, picking up bits and pieces of a vanished epoch: the ribs of Miss Estela’s fan, the chin and neck from a Luna oil portrait, charred gilt-edged pages from books, the ear of a silver candy dish. All that, he thought then, so that son-of-a-goat MacArthur could strut through the flattened city of Manila and lisp “told you I’d be back,” gaddamit. Everything—the city, the people—had been props to a farce; Douggie MacArthur never even smelled the corpses in Bataan and Corregidor, nor laid eyes on cadavers laid end-to-end for a hundred miles, yes, even to Capas, Tarlac; nor had he known how Old Andy had huddled in the basement of his house, unable to decide which was better, death by bombs or death by diarrhea. Phooey!
Old Andy saw his first blond GI after four years that bitter afternoon—an artilleryman taking a respite from the 24-hour cannonading of what was left of the 300-year-old walls of Intramuros. The blond was whistling it’s the loveliest night of the year as he walked, his knees wide apart through the city ruins, his eyes searching the windows of the one intact house left of the block of adobe mansions and wrought- iron balconies, hoping for a glimpse of its frail mestiza resident, a woman in her late twenties, passing for a sixteen-year-old, such being the benefit of a protein-deficient diet.
For all his bitterness, Old Andy was no fool; he could recognize opportunity whatever its disguise and, raising his hand, two fingers pronging the air, he boomed out: Victory, Joe! Liberation, Joe! Long live America! Cigarette, Joe! Don’t be stingy, Joe!
Alas, the habits of a lifetime. He cursed himself as he laid out the GI’s gifts on the burnt dining table, two of whose legs had been replaced by adobe blocks: three loaves of bread, a can of peaches, a can of sardines, two candles. He and his two sons bowed their heads and, in the purple light of dusk, Old Andy prayed aloud to an indifferent god to whom he vowed never to pray again, saying that his last whine for survival had been heard, he would never, never, never grovel again before strangers, never again would he build and accumulate only to let everything be reduced to debris by another man’s war, gaddamit. Never, never, never again. Before he became involved in another man’s war, he would start one himself. So be it.
The governor seemed touched by Old Andy’s words. He fluttered his wings and his eyelashes and turning to the colonel said something was wrong, why was the boy cackling like that? But the colonel patted his shoulder and said there, there; there, there, there; it’s all coming out now, coming out, you will see.
He did see, Old Andy said proudly, though it had taken a while and though he had called his eldest son shitbrained when the morose engineering graduate, staggering about the ruins, rinsing tin plates at the water buckets, waved an opaque sheet before Old Andy, assailing his delicate nostrils with its chemical odor, and announced that this was the future. It was nothing but plastic—but it was the future. Twenty years later, when Old Andy’s body and brains reeled with the seismic tremors of a stroke, the floor of Manila Bay was already rotting under an indestructible pile of plastic sheets, bags, tubes, and bottles, the waves heaving pestilential vapors and poisonous sprays of startling rainbow colors into the clear moist air—courtesy of the Banyaga corporation. Fish refused to enter the harbor and the fishermen had to head for the spawning waters of the typhoons and by the logic of their desire to survive, perished instead. Even wealth, Old Andy understood, had its price.
The governor gave an exasperated sigh. Adrian took this as indictment of his grandfather and he wept. Colonel Amor wiped the tears as they ran down his cheeks. There, there, there; about the Revolution . . .
Understand, Old Andy said on a pleading note, this was the time of reconstruction; fortunes were being made. A handshake across a desk, a whispered introduction, cash under the table and so forth ... The most tenuous of agreements sufficed because capital was pouring in from across the seas, War Rehabilitation Funds from the great North American nation, funds whose disposition and distribution depended on the signature of one—two, at the most, perhaps— man, sending the clever and the sly scurrying to acquire heroic pasts, twenty-eight medals apiece, or sagas of having fought the Japanese Imperial Army, as well as losses in the form of houses, factories, plantations, all catalogued in detail in their nonexistence. Buying and selling triumphed once more in life—though there were no goods, no products. What were sold instead were sheaves of paper, agreements, quotas, permits and licenses, contracts, and government became the biggest business in the country. Assisted by his sons, Old Andy chose to invest in shares of men, staking small fortunes in this or that rising political star in the expectation that, in due time, the man would control all that paper, sheaves and sheaves of signed, stamped, and numbered paper. He optioned the futures of other men, since he was himself already bereft of one, being old now, old.
It was his eldest again who called his attention to a young lawyer ...
Ah, we get to it, the governor said.
Get to it, get to it, get to it—the echoes rolled off the mountain- tops.
... a newcomer to Congress who stood out because he was lean of body among so many fattened calves. Old Andy’s curiosity was further pricked when the man boasted of having two medals of valor from the U.S. Congress—a sign certainly that the norte americano was up to his old tricks. He bought a quarter share in the man’s political career, sold half of it at triple its original price when the man married a beauty queen. By the time the lawyer was Senate president, Old Andy’s share had become both invaluable and a risk. As he rose through the levels of power, the lawyer had trailed in his wake a network of relatives, a locust horde, which gobbled up everything in its path: a paper mill, a bank, a shopping center, a land development corporation, a furniture store, a jewelry corporation, coconut and sugar lands, a beauty parlor, and a gambling joint. Old Andy, who had turned over his fortune to his sons, had only the years piling on his shoulders and Adrian, son of his son, who played at the feet of his grandfather and listened to all his stories and his monstrous monologue of unmeasured time, and who was too young to smell the old man’s fear.
It had begun, one afternoon at an intimate banquet with the lawyer who was now head of state, his shoulders stiff with the title of commander-in-chief. He wasn’t an impressive man, not tall, not handsome, his hair the impossible black of vegetable dye, but he made up for his unprepossessing appearance with pomp and ceremony, starting with his beauty queen wife who changed her clothes and jewels thrice in four hours and serenaded the guests with love songs. Old Andy, exhausted by her reedy coloratura voice, was seated midway down the table for thirty—not too close to the seat of authority, as it were, since the lawyer still didn’t know that the Banyagas owned an eighth share of him, which was all to the good, said Old Andy, since the man was ruining everyone and anyone who’d invested in him.
The man had just emerged victorious from a confrontation with his erstwhile principal financier, a sugar baron whom he had stripped of sugar import quotas and whose letters of credit had been reined in by the Central Bank. The poor bastard was unable to sell his sugar to the U.S. while his creditors were demanding payment for his sugar mill equipment, the stupid so-and-so. The double squeeze had forced him to his knees and he had had to surrender part ownership of his Manila electric power plant, signing it away to the lawyer’s relatives without a single peso changing hands, the old so-and-so.
Old Andy had kept track of the game, unsure whether to cash in on his share or to keep quiet. He had been amused by the shrewdness and voracity of this upstart who now denied his peasant origins and traced his genealogy to Alexander of Macedon, the shitbrained so- and-so.
But we’re going away from the Revolution,
Colonel Amor said. His eyes flashed red and orange and Adrian wept. There, there, there. There was a furtive movement behind a leafless tree and, startled, he saw Eliza briefly in the company of a phantasm dressed in peacock blue. She darted forward but her companion grabbed her elbow and drew her into a black mist that roiled out of nowhere and swallowed them. Adrian wept.
We’re waiting for the Revolution, the governor sang in a piercing falsetto.
That afternoon precipitated it, Old Andy said, his arm slashing the air; listen to me, pendejos of the world. Revolutions do not happen without wherefores and whys. This very afternoon, as the plates were being cleared from the table, the silverware changed for dessert— brazos de mercedes and sans rival, I remember—two men brought up the matter of an empty land bordering the highway, outside the city—true—but close enough to feel the pressure of the megalopolis’s burgeoning population. A subdivision to equal the old Forbes, a new Beverly Hills with free-form pools, Jacuzzi and saunas, greenhouses and fountains, roofs with skylights, and front doors made from the gates of century-old churches of which there were too many in the country, etcetera, etcetera . . . The two had planned for this, had discussed it, and were most pleased that the permits had been issued and construction could begin, for the good of the country, and blah- blah-blah, as a token of their appreciation, of their gratitude that the new head of state was such a forward-looking man—those were their words, Colonel—the corporation had decided to give a prime corner of the new town, a somewhat largish piece of real estate, not to the man, mind you, for that would be contrary to the law, but to his children that they may have something of their own, for everyone knew that public service was a thankless job, especially when it ended.
Old Andy had watched the lawyer’s face throughout this speech and had seen that face darken, pulse with a violet, malignant force at mention of his retirement from power. He took in the black rage, marked it, and said to himself, leche, there could be another war and soon, holy shit, barely six years to go and Adrian was unprepared.
He was still muttering to himself when the two men handed over the leather folder with the land title. Now, the Commander’s expression changed again. A half-second of silence when his fingers touched the folder and his eyes scoured the two men’s faces. Now a serene light shone on his forehead, washed over his cheekbones, and his lips worked at something seemingly immeasurably sweet. Old Andy nearly pissed in his pants. He saw clearly, immediately, that the man didn’t care about the gift’s value, didn’t care about the gift even, but cared profoundly for the act of receiving as though the gift were a tribute, a confirmation of his self, his being, his reality. He found no pleasure in what he was taking but in the act of taking itself. Old Andy cursed silently and steadfastly, right through a string quartet’s rendition of a kundiman, an old love aria that spoke of infinite possibilities in a still young world which had not known Douggie MacArthur, the son-of-a-goat.
He was right, Old Andy was, Adrian said. Two months later, when construction did begin at the new subdivision, half of its holding company’s board of directors wasrelatives of the Commander and each of his children, as well as his wife, held titles to several lots. The former owners were overseas in disgrace, having defaulted on government loans by some unforeseen accident.
Six years to go. Old Andy roamed the corridors and rooms of his mansion, the whine of his wheelchair a squeal of fear. There was hardly time to build a wall of typhoons about his possessions, to secure everything for Adrian, the last of his loins, the most perfect, the most innocent, the handsomest of the Banyagas; Adrian who was untroubled by doubts as to his origins and who, even when feeding on that unspeakable invention, the hamburger, was truly to the manner born.
He sent the slips which bore the Commander’s signature—paper that acknowledged Old Andy’s electoral contributions—to the Palace with a note saying we don’t have to have this between us now. A month later, his eldest son received a logging concession in Palawan Island. Old Andy’s mouth tasted of ashes when he heard about it. There was a message here, he thought, but he himself had not clawed his way up for nothing.
It was quite simple, Colonel. A few phone calls, a transfer of money from bank to bank, and Old Andy had a station in Hong Kong, outside the man’s perimeters of power. Pity the peasant who could not afford a sanctuary. Three years more and the station was operational, having established links with the unacknowledged commerce of weapons and explosives flowing from country to country all over the world, mankind’s most profitable modern enterprise. The plan was simplicity itself: to deflect the Commander’s attention by creating a minor disturbance; to create a buffer between the Banyagas and the man who would rule absolutely and eternally. It was not difficult, for the man himself helped things along; he was well on his way to gobbling up the seven thousand one hundred islands, piling loans upon loans, printing worthless money, taking over one business after another in the name of his inept friends and relatives while his equally maddened wife, suddenly freed from the shame and ostracism of poverty, pursued her silly obsession with aristocratic titles and threw one party after another.
When one feared a man, one invested in his enemies—right, Colonel?—and by the fourth of the six years, the man had plenty. Old Andy nosed around, found a group here, chose a group there, and through intermediaries placed them in touch with the Hong Kong station. He was careful though in his selection, limiting his network to young professionals, a number of whom had intact memories of poverty. He preferred them young because the young were absolute in their loyalties. Weren’t they, Colonel?
Oh, yes, yes, yes. Very good, very, very good.
It was all very simple, really, and each month, Adrian—dear, innocent Adrian who knew everything but never seemed to put one and one together, who listened with only one ear to everything said to him—brought checks to be signed and forwarded to a coded address overseas.
Ah, that was it, said the governor, beatified with contentment. The colonel agreed, saying that was it, that was it, you may rest now, good boy, good boy, don’t worry about it, we ’11 take care of the old coot while you sleep in the governor’s palace in a beautiful bed and your father will be so pleased we are returning you intact—with all your faculties intact. Adrian wept, certain now that what Old Andy had always thought was right, that his sons, Adrian’s father and uncle, were comedians.
But he, Old Andy, never wept, never despaired, and went on mumbling and murmuring in his dotage, his withered head shaking with the effort of speaking, trying to teach Adrian the one lesson—so very, very important, Colonel, you should take it to heart as well— that he had learned when he was still a shrimp, a twit, prosecuting his first case, a handsome devil of a playwright accused of sedition. It had been simple, since the tribunal was staffed by American officers and all Old Andy had had to do was argue that, gaddamit, everything was an act of God and poof! The handsome devil was exiled to Guam even as Old Andy was rushing out of the court to purchase the last two copies of the poor unfortunate’s book of plays. It was a good- looking volume, all leather binding, good linen paper, and gilt-edged. He had rushed to Intramuros, the dungeons of Spanish and now American infamy, the copies in his hands, to ask the elegant young man with the handlebar mustache and the European accent to inscribe them with his historic name. The young man had been amused and, despite his bruised and swollen face (for the blonds had played with him), he had signed twice with a flourish. Thank you, thank you, Old Andy had breathed out, his eyes loving the mementos of his first court case, his fingers caressing the leather covers as though his skin could absorb the words on those pages. It was then that he made a terrible mistake, gaddamit, because he had deemed himself worthy, having been a newsman, a bar topnotcher, and a victorious prosecutor, and having been civilized enough to show he respected the man he was sending off to exile by actually buying his book and asking for his autograph—because of all that, Old Andy had held out his hand like a true gentleman, saying no hard feelings, senor. The play
wright had looked at him, looked at the hand he had thrust between the bars, and had stepped away, smiling with disgust. And in a voice loud enough for the jailer and the jailed to hear, in words of the crudest Tagalog (not even poetic), he had uttered the phrase that was to haunt Old Andy to his dying day. That was how he learned his lesson-- the one Adrian should learn one day, if not today—to wit: that to own things did not necessarily mean one belonged; that possession was no guarantee of control. And when you came to the bottom line, sir, nothing—not beautiful gestures, not beautiful words— spelled the difference between whether one did or did not belong to the seven thousand one hundred islands except the willingness, indeed the capability, sir, to take risks on the archipelago’s behalf. Risks and relentless action, sir; risks and steadfast action.
He learned that and more from three words, uttered with unbearable disdain by a playwright in a voice colder than a sword: “You old fart!”
Peace, Colonel; peace, Governor—old farts both.
9
Daylight was a knot of pain behind her eyes as she rose, stiff muscles protesting, from the mat on the floor. What room it was, in whose house, she did not know; gathered dimly behind the pain in her head were the previous night’s memories: of the transvestite guiding her through a labyrinth of back streets; of herself cowering between the bamboo stilt legs of houses, watching soldiers round up a dozen or so men and women and prod them with rifle butts toward an army van; of a black-velvet-curtained room where Adrian sat in an armchair, twitching and quivering, his legs thrashing, as Colonel Urbano Amor and the governor watched; of a furtive flight through the dark accompanied by children’s shadows, the transvestite at her elbow shushing her. What did it all mean?
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