"cover" art by Marcel Antonio
(LISTEN, this is a novel. Oh, okay, this is a screenplay. A screenplay-novel, if you will, since I’m this film director without a job intent on writing my first novel. A novel is all I can do right now, and it’s the closest thing to a movie; but since I don’t know much about how novels are written, let me write mine as a screenplay—at least in the manner I write my screenplays, since many screenwriters don’t agree with how I write them, sometimes in the past tense.)
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IT'S the year 2007. The door had a sign that read “HUWAG MAG-INGAY.”
In his studio, Fidel’s portraits and portraits-in-progress were all over the walls, on some chairs, on the floor leaning on the walls, with only one obviously-just-started one resting on an H-frame studio easel in the middle of the room. They were unframed mainly-blue paintings of fisherfolk looking over their shoulders, otherwise in profile or with only the backs of their heads available to the viewer. Sometimes these would be profile portraits of important clients posing as fisherfolk or merely looking at fish in beached outrigger boats or in tin buckets.
On a wall was a shelf with award trophies and plaques. On an unpolished table with knife and hammer marks was an album opened to clippings of a couple of recent reviews, with a photograph of the artist, Fidel Roxas. One of the reviews had the headline, “Pride of Soria, Samar , the Philippine art world’s new darling.”
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If we are to view a map of the San Juanico Strait that wiggles between the islands of Samar and Leyte and move up close, Google Earth-fashion, we would see that Samar is to the north of the strait, Leyte island to the south. At the eastern mouth of the strait is the airport on the northeastern-most tip of Leyte on a peninsula that projects out to sea to meet the strait's current as it sucks in water from the Philippine Deep to get more of it into the center of the Visayan group of islands.
The airport is the nearest one to Soria. The nearest airport on Samar Island is more than a hundred kilometers far up north, in Calbayog City Tacloban’s downtown
Upon reaching Samar, a quick turn to the right leads to the first town, the municipality of Soria
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March 1. From this Samar side, one could see the shores and mangroves on the Leyte side of the strait, the green of their trees sparkling over the slow current, the current moving ever so slightly to the swaying palms behind, as they all met the gaze of an eastern sun.
The length of the San Juanico Bridge accompanied the eye as it crossed the strait to Leyte . Were one in a vehicle crossing the bridge to Leyte, the vehicle's reaching the Leyte side would lead him to that arch with letters on it that read “Welcome to Leyte ,” an arch we can hardly see if we are still on the Samar side of the strait.
Just then, a gas-guzzling Ford Expedition approached the entrance to the bridge, about to cross toSamar island.
Just then, a gas-guzzling Ford Expedition approached the entrance to the bridge, about to cross to
In the Expedition, Fidel’s hands were on the steering wheel. Gwen Stefani’s new The Sweet Escape album was playing on his car’s CD deck, this moment the track “Now That You Got It.”
When the car neared the bridge’s Samar Island-side exit, it saw the back of a sign ahead, standing askew and facing the roads from the north and east. On the face of this sign (now foregrounding the bridge with an approaching Ford Expedition) the text read “Welcome to the San Juanico Bridge.” Below it, another sign read “To Leyte,” with an arrow pointing to Leyte. Back to Fidel’s car, now passing a segment of the bridge with a missing length of guard rail reportedly removed by thieves.
Fidel’s car approached the Samar island entrance of the bridge, which was an army checkpoint under an arch with letters that read “Welcome to Samar,” both Fidel’s hands clutching the steering wheel before his car went under the arch. He was now on Samar island. He turned off his CD player and turned on his FM radio. But as per the DJ, it was still a Tacloban-based FM station that was now starting to play the current #1 song in the US, Nelly Furtado’s “Say It Right.”
Turning one’s sight from the bridge checkpoint to a scanning view of Samar island from here, one could see a tree-ridden part to the right (to the east), a high mountain with a rock cliff on its southern side. But gazing at the trees, one’s enjoyment of the view would be troubled by one or two overloaded jeepneys below this mountain, crawling on the white concrete highway, loaded with commuters and carrying sacks of copra and some men on the roof. There might have been a jeepney coming from the Bridge meeting the two jeepneys moving toward the Bridge. These latter would pass the road to the left of the Expedition, the former slowing down behind Fidel (seen on his rearview mirror) as he slowed down. Fidel slowed down to look at the side of the road where a green arrow signboard stood beside a handful of waiting people. The sign read “To Soria,” and Fidel slowed down to see if there was someone from Soria he knew waiting for a jeepney whom he could invite to ride with him.
Fidel, both hands on the steering wheel, passed the “To Soria” sign and the handful of people and sped off.
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Our screen may flash a white flash at this point.
Standing by a rock behind the “To Soria” sign, sixtyish Vicente and his comely-faced 17-year-old cameraman, actually a camera-girl, both looking a bit transparent, watched the Bridge tremble a bit as a bus headed for the
The comely camera-girl was shooting Vicente driving. Vicente, a man with a usually smiling face, was saying to the camera, “papunta tayo sa bahay ng successful young painter na si Fidel Roxas, pintor ng mga portraits ng mga mangingisda. Pero ito ang kailangan niyong malaman. Sa mga painting na ito ni Fidel, ang mga mangingisda ay ayaw humarap sa pintor o sa sinumang nakatingin sa painting. Kung ang pintor ay isang kamera, sasabihin mong ayaw humarap ng mga mangingisda sa pintor, ayaw nilang humarap sa kamera ng pintor.” He laughed. “Ewan ko ba kung bakit ganun ang style niya. Anyway, asawa siya ng anak kong si Joanna na . . . si Joanna, ang anak ko, baliw na baliw sa asawa niya at sa mga gawa nito. Ewan ko ba sa anak ko. Masyadong nabubulagan ng magagandang kulay ng pintor na ito.”
The 17-year-old behind the camera laughed.
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Vicente and his female companion half-invisibly stood at the harbor of Soria , Samar . Some fishing boats and a few passenger launches were using the port. At the foot of the port was a wet market, mainly selling fish. Vicente stood in a white collared shirt with front pockets, and white pants and white shoes. He stood there with a small wireless microphone clipped to his collar and a cigar in his fingers or mouth. The cameragirl had on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, sneakers, and a wristwatch.
Some fisherfolk and other wristwatch-less people in the wet market appeared to be looking in the direction of the urban two, toward the launches and fishing boats in the pier, but it was obvious they couldn’t see the invisible two. They couldn’t see Vicente in his all-white getup, they couldn’t see the camera-girl.
From the port Vicente and his companion walked up to the wet market, and then further onward in the direction of the other busy areas of the small but pretty town. They walked upwards this hilly town, this town built below a mountain. Just a small walk away, and then they saw the old town church. The municipal hall was near the church, as is usual with Philippine towns.
Soon they were turning a corner to the left, westward, to an asphalt road. As they turned this corner, they saw an old house further up the road, the second floor of which loomed above the roofs of the one-story houses near it, even above that one-story house elevated from the ground. The neighborhood had both middle-class bungalow houses and poor men’s houses standing side by side along the clean road. Vicente and his cameragirl walked toward the shiny old house.
When they were near it, we could see that it was a rather big, old two-story house, restored instead of renovated, looking shiny and good even while the repainting tried artificially to simulate an antiquated olive green patina.
Since the harbor, Vicente—walking, not hurrying—had been talking to his cameragirl who kept on shooting. Earlier he was saying, to the camera, “Ito po ang bayan ng Soria, Samar . Dito na nakatira ang aking mahal na anak na si Joanna at ang kanyang asawa. . . . Hay naku, miss na miss ko na ang anak ko. (He looked at his 17-year-old camera-girl) Noon, kami lang ang magkasama niyan, sa bahay namin sa Tacloban, nung yumao ang kanyang ina noong apat-na-taong-gulang pa lang si Joanna. So, matagal nang namatay ang misis ko, at ako nama’y ngayon ay palaboy-laboy. (He laughed) Hindi taga-rito sa Soria si Joanna o ang kanyang asawa, pareho taga-Tacloban ang mga ‘yan, may nabili lamang silang lumang bahay rito. Ayun o (pointing to the area where the house was). Pero diyan lang naman ang Tacloban e, ang pinakamalapit na lungsod mula rito, pagkatawid lang ng San Juanico Strait.” Upon his mention of the strait, he pointed at the waters beyond the harbor that he could now see above the roofs of the houses on the sea side of the road. They had already walked up quite a distance.
“Para makatawid ng San Juanico Strait papuntang lungsod ng Tacloban sa island ngLeyte , dadaan ka sa San Juanico Bridge. Diyan lang yun, malapit lang, nandun tayo kanina, di ba? Alam mo, ‘pag ikaw nga naman ay may narating, sabi nila ibig sabihin daw no’n ay ikaw ay may tinawid na mga tulay. (He laughed) Well, ngayon nandito na tayo. Sa bayan ng Soria, sa isla ng Samar . Ang anak ko ay Mrs. Roxas na ngayon, at yun ay dahil ang napangasawa niya ay ang kanyang high school sweetheart na si Fidel Roxas. Si Fidel ay isa nang kilalang pintor, tulad ng sabi ko kanina. Napakabatang sumikat. . . . At ako? Well, tulad ni Joanna ako ay madalas ding wala do’n sa bahay namin sa Tacloban, at ang anak ko ay hindi alam kung nasaan talaga ako ngayon. . . . Pero, ngayong araw narito ako. Well, binibisita ko ang aking anak, matagal ko na rin siyang hindi nakikita. . . . Yun ang bahay ng anak ko at ng kanyang asawa, dito sa Soria,” he said, pointing to the only house on the street that had a second story, the house with the false antique olive-green patina.
“Para makatawid ng San Juanico Strait papuntang lungsod ng Tacloban sa island ng
The cam-girl’s camera walked further up the street. Now they were high up from the harbor and walking flat on the plateau of the town.
“Okay, ‘andito na tayo sa harap ng bahay,” said Vicente to the girl’s camera. “Minsan kakatok tayo at bibisitahin natin ang anak ko. Pero hindi muna ngayon. Si Joanna—I’m sorry, Joanna ako nang Joanna, Mrs. Roxas na pala. Anyway, malapit lang naman ang bayan ng Soria sa Tacloban, pagtawid ko ng San Juanico Bridge nandito na ako, kahit kailan puwede ko silang bisitahin.”
Vicente smiled. He was now standing in front of the house across the asphalt road. The house’s front had a beautifully-designed garden. Fidel’s Expedition was on the driveway, visible through the wrought-iron gate.
Vicente looked toward the camera-girl’s camera and smiled. “Ang ganda ng bahay, ano? Alam niyo, pag-usapan natin si Fidel. Dati mahirap lang ‘yan sina Fidel at ang kaniyang nag-iisang kapatid, si Federico. Si Federico ay isa na ring pamosong batang arkitekto ng Pilipinas. Ang suwerte ng magkapatid na ‘to, at ang huhusay. Galing sa isang mahirap na pamilya, tulad ng marami sa atin, nguni’t . . . (laughing) naging matagumpay at yumaman ang mga gago!”
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Vicente was saying, “If we are to do a flashback, we will see Fidel pushing the gate buzzer button at the Apostols’ house in Tacloban. He would then be asking if Joanna is home.”
The then-fiftyish Vicente would grudgingly reply with a near-shout toward the high-schoolish Fidel: “wala siya rito! Umalis!”
“Sige po, salamat po, Mang Vicente,” Fidel would respectfully say, walking away with a shake of the head even while using that Filipino honorific, Mang, kicking a wildflower on the roadside dirt outside of the Apostols’ fence.
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Vicente giggled. “Tingnan mo, tingnan mo, ang ganda ng mga halaman sa garden na ‘to.
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“If we are to do another flashback to the same period, but on another day,” Vicente said, a flashback like the one he did above, but on a different day, we would then see the high school-ish Fidel again addressing Vicente who would again be on the Apostols’ front porch with a newspaper. “Sige po, Mang Vicente, alis na po ako,” Fidel might say, to which bidding Vicente would simply reply with a grunt, and Fidel might walk a couple of steps backwards on the pavement leading down to the gate while waving to Joanna (whose then younger face would pretty much look like that on our present invisible cameragirl’s). This young Joanna would be by the window with the capiz-shell sliding panes. Then Fidel would step on a flowering plant in a low pot, with Joanna laughing at the sight.
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Vicente sighed, sadly smiling, and then said, “ganito sana ang garden namin ni Joanna, kung di lang sana ako nagpabaya sa kanya matapos mamatay ang aking asawa noong apat-na-taong gulang pa lang si Joanna. Yun ang dahilan kung kaya’t naglayas si Joanna pagkatapos niya ng high school, nung may ipinagtapat ako sa kanya. Sure, naging direktor din tulad ko, short films director actually, mga short films lang naman ang mga gawa niya, tapos nagturo sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas nang maikling panahon. Sumusulat lang sa ‘kin paminsan-minsan mula sa bahay ng tita niya sa Maynila. Minsan umuwi, o dalawang beses, pero sandali lang, tuwing summer lang. ‘Yun ang huli naming pagkikita, six years ago before she turned 19. Or rather, di na niya ako nakita nung umuwi siya ng Tacloban para magpaalam sa akin, para sabihing magpapakasal na sila ni Fidel sa susunod na taon. Wala na ako sa bahay noon. Or, . . . naroon pa rin kaya ako?”
Vicente’s face was suddenly sad. But soon he was back to his usual smiling face.
“Tingnan niyo, tingnan niyo,” he said as he and his cameragirl, the cameragirl who could be the now-married Joanna's younger sister, crossed the street and started to go through the gate.
“Oops, may tae ng aso,” said the camera-girl, barely escaping the dogshit just outside the gate.
“Saan?” said Vicente.
“Ayan o.”
“Ay, oo nga,” said Vicente, and stepped over the dog’s shit.
The cameragirl laughed, saying, “hindi ka naman mangangamoy kahit matapakan mo iyan e.” . . .
“Ang galing mag-disenyo ng hardin nitong si Joanna, mana sa kanyang ina,” Vicente continued, giggling. “May mga damong mahaba na hinayaang mahaba sa isang sulok. Ganyan din ang kanyang ina. Nakakatakot nga lang kung ahasin pero . . . alam niyo, ang anak ko ay kilala sa art society bilang ang short filmmaker na si Joanna Apostol na anak ni direk Vicente Apostol. Ako yun. At kung dati ang inaayos niya’y mga bagay-bagay sa film set ng sinu-shoot niyang short film, itong hardin, ito ang art niya ngayon. Hindi na mga ilaw o props o actors ang inaayos . . . kundi mga damo at bulaklak na lamang.”
He laughed, but also with a kind of sadness.
“Sayang. Halika,” he said to the girl’s camera, “pasok tayo, baka may tao.”
The two had gone through the locked wrought-iron gate like mist and had been standing in front of the small front garden. Now, near the stairs going up the house, the pretty young lady with the camera said, “akala ko ba di ka muna dadalaw sa kanila ngayon.”
He laughed.
“E, andito na tayo e,” he said.
The cameragirl smiled, lovingly looking at Vicente.
They climbed the front stairs. Underneath the stairs there was a closed door that looked like a way to the lower part of the house.
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Upstairs, the cameragirl surveyed with her camera the living area of the gorgeously-restored old house that looked like something created or arranged for a TV show on interior design. She went to the adjoining dining area, and then the kitchen—where, in this last, a blubbery maid in a blue house dress was cooking, her back to the cam-girl’s camera. On every wall in each of these rooms would hang a large painting by Fidel Roxas the portraitist and smaller ones presumably by other painters. But the hanging was not overdone as to make the rooms look like a studio or saturated gallery on an art bazaar day. In short, no wall was over-decorated with paintings. In the dining area was an antique grandfather clock, which was my grandfather’s.
As mentioned earlier, Fidel’s portraits were all of fisherfolk looking over their shoulders. Or otherwise these were profile portraits of these fisherfolk looking either straight to the right or the left of the picture, or with only the backs of their heads visible to the viewer as they looked out to sea or looked over large metal basins and metal buckets of fish at their feet.
The camera-girl went on with her camera past a screen door and its open wooden door that led to a large bedroom where a woman of about 25, also with her back to the cam-girl’s camera, was brushing her hair. The woman was facing a screened bay window that looked out to a tree. A three-year-old boy was also in the room on the master bedroom’s big bed, watching TV, his back also to the cam-girl’s cam. There was a smaller bed in the large bedroom, obviously the boy’s.
The camera-girl’s camera backed out and followed a corridor. The corridor led to a studio in back of the house on the door of which hung a sign that read “HUWAG MAG-INGAY.” The door was also ajar and so the camera entered. The camera saw Fidel, a rather handsome 26-year-old young fellow with a bit long hair, about 5’6” tall, just an inch taller than Joanna. He was painting a portrait of a woman fishmonger’s profile in his usual quick realism that would sometimes look like Fauve or Blue-Period Picasso drawings. Antonio Molina’s Malikmata was playing on the CD player.
The camera surveyed the studio and there were more of these fisherfolk portraits, these profile or otherwise subjects’-backs-to-the-painter portraits of fisherfolk. It was as if the painter was always more interested in the fish and the landscape and seascape and townscape and didn’t want to be bothered with details about the fisherfolk themselves.
In the studio, there was a wide door that led to a balcony with a belt of fine wrought-iron railing and a pretty nice view of the house’s well-trimmed backyard garden.
Fidel stopped painting. He went out the door to the hallway and called to his wife.
“Wana! Wana, halika nga muna. Joanne!”
There was no answer.
“Wana, halika muna, please,” he pleaded, a bit impatient.
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