Fidel's March: A Screenplay of a Novel (Chapter 08)

MARCH 6. Fidel woke up in his studio with a backache. He was lying down on the bare floor. Joanne was squatting over him, smiling.

    “Dito ka na nakatulog, a. Anong oras ka natulog?” Joanne asked. She looked at an empty canvas on the easel. “Buong gabi nagpinta ka?” she added, “ang ganda, a.”

     Fidel laughed. “Wala akong gana, e,” he said. “Nanood na lang ako ng TV.”

     She looked at the corner of the room where the TV’s suspended-power red light beside the power button was still on. She stood up to turn the power off, then went back to Fidel, holding both his hands to lift him up.

     “Halika, breakfast na tayo,” she said, lifting him as Fidel helped himself as well.

     “Si Pablo, tulog pa?”

     “Siyempre.”

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Fidel was smoking in the dark the previous night while he sat on his studio couch, looking at his paintings with the light coming in from the balcony’s round yellow bulb (behind a transparent light-fixture shell) and the garden lamps. Later, he replaced the blank vertical-rectangle canvas on the easel with a similarly-blank one, a horizontal one this time. But he went on sitting on the couch until he got tired of looking at the canvas and the studio walls and his paintings, thinking and smoking, and went to the TV at the corner of the studio near the door to switch it back on.

     The TV was tuned to a national news channel, and there was news about the arrest of the son of the mayor of Alto town, in Iloilo province on Panay island, who is the prime suspect in the gruesome murder of the wife and driver of the contender for the town’s upcoming mayoralty race. The bodies of the wife and driver of the contender were found in one of the mayor’s family vans at a beach, with the wife’s head smashed by a large rock that was found still on her lap, the driver punctured by a pickaxe that was still stuck on his neck, when the van was found, hidden inside a thatched garage. The report was saying there seemed to be a long-standing feud between the family of the mayor and that of the contender, with not a few insults exchanged between the two families through five decades of tugs of war not only over political posts in the town and the province but also business opportunities (legal and not) that went with political power. Every time one of the families got an upper hand during a term, the report said, the losing family would face harassment in relation to applications for business permits, tax breaks, et cetera. However, the feud and exchange of insults never really led to violence, not until this son came along, newly graduated from a master’s degree in Tokyo University and—rumors persisted—some gang activity in Tokyo.

     Fidel was sitting watching this when something caught his eye: the TV crew had entered a storage house in another property of the mayor, and it was full of paintings. The TV crew had followed the police raid of this storage house where the mayor’s son hid after getting wind of an arrest order, and—after the mayor’s son’s surrender—the little warehouse was found by the cameras to contain a collection of paintings. The reporter was saying the mayor’s son was a collector of contemporary Philippine art, most notably paintings by one of Fidel’s classmates, Henderson Ulan. Ulan specialized in paintings of deformed faces.

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On the steel-plated, lower part of the front gate of the Roxas house, a graffiti text written like a logo spells the word “OIL.”

     Cocks were still crowing this late in the morning.

     Fidel comes out of his house’s gate carrying a small basket of fruits and a pack of oats and walks down west of the gate (to the left of the gate, or heading right if you’re watching the gate from across the street) in the direction of the dentist’s clinic. Past the dental clinic he turns right at the first corner. At the front of the street-corner store, three young men—two of whom had turned their backs on wealthy, young Fidel to face the store—extracted phlegm from their throats and spat them on the asphalt’s edge. This kind of extraction is sometimes meant to display one’s disgust for other male individuals of one’s age who are privileged-looking, but you could say there is indeed a certain degree of fear with the display if there was also some back-turning that accompanied it. Otherwise, this sort of extraction is nothing more than a morning habit, from a wish to be phlegm-free after a night of sleeping with open windows.

     Some houses later after turning the corner Fidel steps off the asphalt and enters a small yard with a small bamboo and nipa hut on it. A man is sitting on the bamboo floor of the porch of the house, massaging the arm of a teenage boy accompanied by his mother. The boy screams in pain every now and then. Fidel waits. Then the man lets them go, and the mother says her ‘thank you’ to the man named Mang Juaning.

     “Magkano, Mang Juaning?”

     “A, wala po. Donation po puwede, kayo na po ang bahala. Yung kaya nyo lang po. Pangkape lang naman yan, okay na sa akin. Kilala nyo naman ako, ganayan talaga ako,” says the amiable Mang Juaning.

     The mother hands him a twenty-peso bill.

     To the boy, Mang Juaning says, “O, tandaan mo ha, ‘di ka puwedeng magmura sa loob ng isang linggo. Kung di mo gagawin iyan babalik ang pilay mo. At huwag ka munang maglikot, ipahinga mo muna yang kamay mo.”

     “Sus,” the mother says, “iyan lang naman ang alam nila e, basketbol, puro basketbol, hanggang sa mapilayan.”

     “Mas maganda pa mag-bilyar na lang muna kayo. Baka kayo pa ang sumunod na Bata Reyes, world champion, o magiging sayang lang kayo, hindi lahat nagiging player sa PBA,” says Mang Juaning.

     We might here recall in flashback Vicente (that’s me) saying something like this about Joanna at the start of this story: “Hindi na mga ilaw o props o actors ang inaayos kundi mga damo at bulaklak.” Vicente laughed, but also with a kind of sadness. “Sayang.” We might let this word echo in our minds: “Sayang … sayang … sayang.” Although certainly being a gardener housewife to a successful painter is nowhere similar to trying to simulate a 6-footer’s international game.

     “… world champion, sa billiards, o magiging sayang lang kayo,” says Mang Juaning.

@ @ @

“At magdasal ka palagi! Ha?” Mang Juaning emphasizes, talking to the boy.

     Mother and teenage boy finally bid Mang Juaning goodbye. Fidel climbs up the two steps of the bamboo ladder to the porch and sits on the shiny bamboo floor.

     “O, napasyal ka, Fidel. Kelangan mo ba uli ako para magmodelo? Wala kang dalang kamera a. May pilay ka ba?”

     “A, wala po. Magpapamasahe lang po, Mang Juaning, paggising ko kanina, sakit po ng likod ko e. Nakatulog po ako sa kahoy na sahig sa studio ko.”

     “E, hindi ka kasi nagpapahinga sa trabaho mo e. Huwag masyadong masipag, ha. O, sige, sandali lang ha. Maghuhugas lang ako ng kamay.”

     “Ay, eto nga pala mga dala ko sa iyo.”

     “Uy, naku, salamat, hijo, nag-abala ka pa,” Mang Juaning says, taking the small basket.

     “Ikaw kasi, Mang Juaning, ayaw niyong tumanggap ng bayad ko sa iyo pag nagpapamasahe ako, kaya yan na lang. Prutas, kelangan niyo po yan. O, ayan, di ba? Dahil ayaw niyong tumanggap ng pera sa mga pagmamasahe niyo, nagmumukha tuloy kayong pasyente sa ospital na dinadalhan ng prutas.”

     They both laugh.

     “Okey, sandali, ha, maghuhugas lang ako ng kamay,” Mang Juaning says again, going through his half-open bamboo-framed doorway, small fruit basket in tow. A moment later he comes out with a new bottle of coconut oil. Fidel takes his shirt off. Mang Juaning starts massaging Fidel’s back.

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“Mang Juaning, may itatanong po ako sa iyo.”

     “Aba, e, shoot. Walang tanong sa mundo na di ko pipiliting makapagbigay ng sagot, kahit di ko alam ang sagot. . . . Aba, ang mga tao ngang di matulungin sa kapwa nila taga-rito, e, nakakalapit sa akin, at marami ring tanong. At sinasagot ko. Ikaw pa, kabago-bago mo sa barangay natin, napakarami ka nang na-donate sa ating barangay.”

     They both laugh.

     “Ikaw talaga, Mang Juaning, e ako naman ay nagbibigay lang kung nanghihingi ng donasyon ang barangay. Tsaka—”

     Before Fidel could say anything more, Mang Juaning says:

     “Nga pala, Fidel, sino ba ang bisita mo nung isang araw, kapatid mo ba yun? Hawig kayo e. Nakita ko nung bumibili ako ng bananacue sa tapat ninyo.”

     “A, oho, nakatatandang kapatid ko ho. Dalawa lang ho kaming magkapatid.”

     “A, iyon ba? … mestisuhin din ano. Pareho kayo, ano.”

     “Naku, hindi naman po ako mestiso e. Pogi lang ho ako,” Fidel says, smiling.

     Mang Juaning laughs.

     “Okey ka talaga. Yan ang gusto ko sa iyo, e, hindi ka mayabang.”

     They laugh. Then there’s a pause.

     Then Fidel says:

     “Mang Juaning, ikaw po, bilang isang manghihilot na ibang-iba ang linya sa akin, matanong ko lang po kayo, . . . ano po ang tingin niyo sa trabaho ko? Ibig ko hong sabihin, yung mga gawa ko, nakita niyo naman po. Alam ko kasing isa kayong relihiyosong tao, so … ano po ang tingin niyong maaaring maidulot ng isang painting ko sa isang taga-rito, halimbawa, kung masisilip niya?”

     “Aba, anak, teka nga muna. Gusto mo ba ng kape? Dahil mahaba-haba ang magiging sagot ko riyan.”

     Fidel laughs, “huwag na po, katatapos lang ho.”

     Before Mang Juaning could say anything more, Fidel continues:

     “Kasi po, sabi nga po sa akin ng kapatid ko kahapon, ang mga paintings ko raw parang mga pangdekorasyon na lang. Gusto lang po niya makatulong sa akin, kasi po . . . kasi po naman ako ay . . . uhm, . . . well, . . . parang di po ako sigurado sa epekto ng gawa ko sa lipunan, e, alam niyo po, ang magiging kabuluhan nito, kung may kabuluhan man itong maidudulot. At kaya lang naman po ikaw ang aking tinatanong, . . . well, kasi ho, baka, baka sakali matulungan niyo akong marating ang isang kasagutan. . . . Kaya, ikaw ho, bilang isa sa mga nakakita na ng mga gawa ko sa bahay, ano po sa tingin ninyo? Yung honest na sagot lang po, ha.”

     “E, ganun naman talaga ang peyntings, di ba? Di nga ba’t pangdekorasyon naman talaga ang mga iyon, ayon sa kapatid mo?”

     “Aaaam, hindi po naman lahat, hindi po lahat. Ang totoo nga po niyan, ang sabi ng kapatid ko, wala man lang daw ni konting bahid ng pulitika ang mga gawa ko.”

     “Ano, kamo!”

     Fidel laughs a bit of a laugh. “E, kasi ho, iba kasi rito, Mang Juaning, e. Ibig kong sabihin, nung kaming mag-asawa ay nasa Maynila pa, ang dami naming nakakahalubilong mga artist, mga musikero, mga gumagawa ng sine, mga makata, mga manunulat ng nobela, puro ganun, mga propesor ang iba. Hanggang nagsawa po kaming mag-asawa sa gano’n, kaya po naman minsan noon gusto naming nagbabakasyon sa probinsiya para lang maka-experience kami ng nandun sa piling ng . . . alam mo na, ng mga mangingisda, halimbawa. At iyon din po ang dahilan, sa madaling salita, kung bakit nagdesisyon kaming dito na sa ating rehiyon ako magpinta. So, iyon. Kaso nga lang mayro’n akong nakita. Nakita ko rin, Mang Juaning, nakita kong ito ang siyang tanging pagkakataon, o ang unang pagkakataon mula nang maggraduate ako sa college, na wala akong nakakausap na kapwa ko pintor o di kaya isang kritiko, maliban sa asawa ko na ayaw na rin naman pag-usapan ang mga maiiksing pelikula niya, mula paggising ko sa umaga hanggang hanggang sa pagtulog ko sa gabi. Alam ko ho, may grupo ng mga artist dito, pero ayoko naman pong puntahan sila, kung nasa’n man ang mga bahay o tambayan nila. Gusto ko kung magkakakila-kilala kami, yung natural lang na magkikita kami. At ‘di rin ako sigurado kung gusto ko nga silang makahalubilo rito, kasi yun nga ang dahilan kung bakit ako umalis ng Maynila, di ba, para malayo muna sa mga kapwa ko artists? Pero ngayon naman na wala akong makausap na kapwa artist, parang ano naman ho, . . . parang . . . sabi nga ng kapatid ko, parang wala na akong pulitika. Dahil po, pag kasama ko ang mga kapwa ko artists noon, yun lang talaga ang parating pinag-uusapan naming e, ang pulitika sa art, ang pulitika ng art. Ibig ko hong sabihin ng pulitika, hindi po yung pulitika ng mga pulitiko. Ang ibig ho kasing sabihin ng pulitika, galing po kasi yan sa salitang ‘polity’ o ‘polis’ na ang ibig sabihin ho ay ‘ang bayan’ o ‘ang mamamayan’. At ang nakasanayan kong pulitika, ho, ay ang pulitika hindi ng nakararami kundi ng mga kapwa ko mga artists o musikero o mga direktor ng pelikula. Sila po kasi ang naging ‘bayan ko’, ika nga.”

     “A, ganun ba iyon? Polis, ang Taumbayan? Polis-tika! Hahaha! So, ibig sabihin, . . . umm, mga isyu ng tao, o mga isyu ng sambayanan. Hindi mga isyu ng mga partido pulitikal, kung ganun, hehehe. Tama ba ako?”

     “Nakuha niyo po, tumpak po, Mang Juaning. Oho, ganun ho iyon. . . . O di kaya, ang pulitika, ibig sabihin mga bagay na may kinalaman sa tao, sa polis, sa karamihan.”

     “Wow, ngayon ko lang nalaman iyon a.”

     “Opo, kaya po metropolis ang tawag natin sa metropolis. Metro. Sa Griego po, ang ibig sabihin no’n ay ‘ang ina’. At polis naman, lungsod, o lungsod ng mga tao, o kalipunan ng maraming tao. So, metro-polis, ang ibig sabihin no’n ay inang-lungsod, o lungsod ng mga lungsod, o inang-komunidad ng mas maliit na mga komunidad ng tao. . . . So, anyway, Mang Juaning, yun po ang sabi ng kapatid ko, na parang nawala raw ang pulitika sa paintings ko. Ang ibig niyang sabihin do’n ay, hindi ko na raw alam kung sinong mga tao o aling lungsod ng mga tao na ang kinakausap ko. At sabi ko naman, baka dahil ibang mga tao na ang mga nakakahalubilo ko sa araw-araw dito. Tapos sabi ko, masaya ako rito, ayokong bumalik ng Maynila. Kaya sinabi niyang ako, si Fidel Roxas, ay dapat maghanap ng pulitika ng painting ko sa kasalukuyan, o ang nararapat na pulitika ko para sa kalagayan ko sa ngayon. Ibig sabihin, ang pulitika ko ayon sa polis kung saan naroon ako ngayon.”

     “Hmmm. Baka tama ang kapatid mo, may katwiran siya.”

     “E, tungkol sa pagiging nandito ko, siyempre gusto ko munang malaman ang pulitika ng mga tao rito. Ibig ko pong sabihin, ang kanilang mga hilig pag-usapan, iyon ba ay ang mga maka-Diyos na bagay, ang kalagayan ng kanilang mga trabaho, o ang pulitika ng mga pulitiko lamang na siya lang nilang sinusundan.”

     “E, akala ko ba galing ka rito. Bakit parang di mo alam ang gawi ng mga tao rito?”

     “E, kasi ho, alam ho naman natin na halos bawat bayan may pagkakaiba ng hilig, di ba? Bawat kalsada nga iba ang grupo ng mga tao, iba ang mga gustong pag-usapan, di ba? Sa isang kanto puro artista ang gustong pinag-uusapan, sa kabilang kanto puro panahon ng giyera. Siguro naman may mas malaking pagkakaiba sa panlasa ang mga tao rito at ang mga nakatira sa Tacloban.”

     “Oo nga, ano,” says Mang Juaning, laughing, “di ko naisip yan a.”

     “Dito naman ho sa ating magkakapitbahay, mukhang ikaw lang ang may tunay na relihiyon at paniniwala, tama ho ba ako? Ang iba puro tsismis lang ang alam.”

     Mang Juaning laughs, humbled too by Fidel’s acknowledgment of his personally preferred topics.

     “Hindi naman. Mga relihiyoso ang tao rito sa barangay natin, hindi lang naman ako.”

     “Pero, ano po sa iyong palagay? Kasi, ikaw po, alam ko po ang halaga niyo sa lipunan, o ang pagpapahalaga sa inyo ng tao, di ba? Halimbawa, ako—ako alam ko ang tingin sa iyo ng tao rito. E, sa akin. Sa akin po ano ang tingin niyo, Sa tingin niyo, Mang Juaning, may pakinabang ba sa akin ang lipunan labas sa mga mayayamang bumibili ng mga gawa ko? Wala, di ba? Kahit nga ang mga may pera rito, gusto lang nilang magpa-paint sa akin dahil sa pirma ko, pero sa tingin ko hindi sila interesado sa sinasabi ng mga paintings ko.”

     “Mmm, baka nga. E, ako rin naman, kung hindi mo kinuwento sa akin ang mga sinasabi ng peyntings mo, hindi ko rin malalaman iyon hanggang ngayon.”

     “Iyon. Para sa mga tulad niyo na bukas ang isip, madaling sabihin ko sa iyo kung tongkol saan ito at iyon. Ang ibang tao ayaw ng nilelecturan.”

     They both laugh mildly.

     “So, sa tingin niyo po, ano kaya ang magagawa ng painting ko sa bayan natin? Ibig kong sabihin, . . . kung halimbawa una kong i-exhibit ang isang koleksiyon ng paintings ko diyan sa Munisipyo . . . bago ko ito dalhin sa Maynila, ano sa palagay mo ang magiging pag-intindi ng tao rito sa paintings ko nang wala akong itinuturo? Wala kasi akong ideya, e. Kaya minsan naiisip ko na hindi ako dapat nandito e, dapat siguro nasa Yuropa ako, dahil ang alam kong peynting ay nanggaling sa Yuropa. O di kaya dapat bumalik nalang ng Maynila, o di kaya huwag nalang makipag-usap sa tao tungkol sa ginagawa ko,” Fidel says, half-laughing, half nervously.

     “Alam mo, anak, me ikukuwento ako sa iyo. Alam mo, . . . may mga nagsasabi riyang mga doktor na ako raw ay si Dr. Laway. Kasi raw, laway lang daw ang panggamot ko. Ibig sabihin, kahit di ko naman nilalawayan ang mga nagpupunta sa ‘kin, ibig sabihin hanggang laway lang ako. Alam mo ang ibig sabihin no’n? Isa raw akong sinungaling. Pinagsasasabi ko raw na kaya kong gawin ‘to at ‘iyon, gayung ang totoo naman daw ay wala akong kakayahan. Ano ba ang sabi nung isang doktor na narinig ko sa radyo, palasibo lang daw ang gumagamot sa tao galing sa mga taong tulad ko.”

     “Placebo ho?”

     “Pasibo, palasibo? Ewan ko. . . . Ibig sabihin, kasinungalingan ang mga paggamot ko. Yun. Ang masasabi ko sa kanila, sa kabila ng kanilang talino, sa kabila ng bisa ng kanilang mga gamot, meron din silang mga di nagagamot. Ewan ko, ha, basta ako, ang paniniwala ko lang ay sa Diyos. Ang Diyos ang nagpapagaling sa mga di nila napapagaling. Nasaan ang kasinungalingan do’n? Kahit nga ako di ko alam kung bakit may nangyayari pag pinagdadasalan ko ang isang may nararamdaman. Pa’no ako makapagsisinungaling gayung sinasabi ko na sa tao na di ko alam pa’no nangyayari ang mga nangyayari sa kanila? Di ba? Nasaan ang kasinungalingan doon, aber? Kasinungalingan ba iyon dahil … dahil nagkaroon ng epekto ang mga dasal ko? Maaaring parating nagkakataon lamang, pero parati kong sinasabi sa tao, gagaling lamang sila sa paniniwala, hindi dahil may magic ako. Wala akong magic. Aba, kung kasinungalingan iyon, e ano ang totoo? Ang panggagamot nila sa kanilang mga clinic, iyon lang ang totoo? At doon sa mga walang nangyaring paggaling, totoo pa rin iyon? Samantala, do’n sa hindi naniwala sa dasal at basta namatay na lang, nandun din ba ang katotohanan? Hindi ko alam! Wala kong inaangking buong kaalaman! Hahaha, bahala sila. Basta ako, habang hinahanap ako ng tao, tutulong ako. Hindi ako ang lumapit sa tao at nagtayo ng klinik, ang tao ang lumapit sa akin, at sinasabi ko na dasal lang ang kaya ko, ang Diyos ang nagpapasya kung gagaling o hindi, o kung ang dasal ko ang tutulong sa kanilang gumaling.”

     “Yan po ang parati niyong sinasabi, pati ho sa mga meeting natin sa barangay association, Mang Juaning, at ako naman ay sang-ayon sa iyo. Talagang di niyo makalimutan, Mang Juaning, ha.”

     “Aba, hindi ko talaga makakalimutan iyon. Dahil ako ay hinusgahan. Hinusgahan ako nang wala namang nagpunta sa akin para kausapin ako.”

     There is a bit of silence as Mang Juaning continues to slowly massage Fidel’s back, Fidel sitting on the bamboo floor with his feet resting on a step of the bamboo porch stairs, Mang Juaning on his knees.

     “So, ang ibig niyo pong sabihin, Mang Juaning,” continues Fidel, “ang iyong epekto . . . ang epekto ng gawa niyo . . . ay nasa paningin . . . nasa paningin at paniniwala ng tao sa iyo, . . . ibig sabihin, nasa tingin nila, . . . hindi sa kaalaman nila tungkol sa mga alam mo at di mo alam.”

     “Yu-u-un. Kasi ako, anak, ako hindi ko rin alam e. Di ba? Hindi ko rin alam kung bakit isang araw nalang, may nahawakan akong isang bata na hindi ko naman alam na may sakit, aba at biglang gumaling. Dati na akong masahista, pero di ko alam na nakapanggagamot din pala ako, kung yun man ang nangyari. Ibig sabihin, sa mga tao lang yun, hindi sa akin. Di ba? At sa aking banda, ang pinakaimportante ay may naitutulong ako sa pamamagitan ng epekto ng mga dasal ko sa tao na hindi ko naman sinasabing garantisadong makapagpapagaling sa kanila, mangyari pa’y sinasabi ko pa nga sa kanila na lahat ng ito ay maaaring nagkakataon lamang, bagamat maraming mga pagkakataon ito. At sinasabi kong hindi ako ang nakakagamot sa kanila, kundi ang paniniwala nila. Iyan ang parati kong sinasabi.”

     Fidel thinks about it, silent, and then says, “Okay na po, Mang Fidel, okey na po. Medyo gumaan na ang pakiramdam ko. Hay, ako ay marami pang tatapusin! Hay buhay.” He kneels up on the bamboo porch so Mang Juaning can wipe off the coconut oil on Fidel’s back.

     “Kaya, iyon ang sinasabi ko,” says Mang Juaning, continuing to wipe off more oil from Fidel’s naked back, “ang ginagawa mo . . . maaaring bilib ang tao . . . anuman ang halagang nakita nila sa mga gawa mo. Pero ikaw, alam mo rin dapat ang tunay na halaga ng mga gawa mo sa tao. Ibig kong sabihin, sa araw-araw mong paggawa ng mga peyntings, anak, aba e, . . . basta ialay mo lang sa Diyos, hindi sa tao, . . . at hindi ka malulungkot.”

     Fidel looks at him. Then he says, standing up:

     “O sige po, Mang Juaning. Salamat po ng marami.”

     Mang Juaning too gets up from kneeling and stands on the porch.

     “O, kung kelangan mo na uli ng modelo ha, narito lang ako, dalhin mo kamera mo,” Mang Juaning says with a smile. “At sagwan! Para makapagkunwari na uli akong isang totoong mangingisda!”

     They both snicker.

     “A, sige po. Sige po, Mang Juaning. Thank you po.”

     “Basta yun ang sinabi ko sa iyo, Fidel, huwag mong kalimutan.”

     “Ano nga po uli iyon?” Fidel asks, half jokingly.

     “Ang epekto ng mga gawa mo sa tao, yun ang mahalaga, hindi yung sabi ng mga . . . ano ba iyon? Mga otoridad?”

     “Mga dalubhasa po?”

     “Iyon. At siyempre, ang paniniwala mo rin sa totoong nangyayari sa palibot mo, hindi yung galing sa kaalaman na nakuha mo sa libro lang.”

     Fidel walks away, smiling, raising his hand to gesture a goodbye.

@ @ @

Fidel now walks back toward his house. He is thinking:

     “Sa epekto, . . . at sa totoong nangyayari. Itong dalawa ang importante. Hm.”

     Fidel shakes his head.

     Fidel walks past his house and down to the other side—the eastern side—of their street in the direction of the church and municipal building. When he reaches the corner, he stops in front of a sprawling ranch-style house with two cars parked on its driveway and garage area.

     “Tao po! Good morning!” Fidel calls, pushing the gate’s doorbell button.

     “Ano po iyon?” asks the maid.

     “Ahm, nariyan po ba si Board Member?”

     “Sandali lang po.”

     The provincial board member shows up at her door. She seems ready to leave for her office although still in her slippers and with hair rollers still in her hair.

     “Uy, Fidel!” the Board Member says. “Ano, matatapos na ba ang background? Naku, marami nang naghihintay sa painting mo sa opisina ko. Do’n ko kasi isasabit yun sa isang dingding ko sa opisina. Ay, picture ko na lang pala ang kulang, ano. Si Presidente nando’n na, ano? Picture ni Governor nabigyan na ba kita? Hinihintay na rin niya, a! Hay naku, isa talagang hulog ka ng langit at dito ka nagtayo ng bahay mo sa Samar! Halika, pasok ka muna.”

@ @ @

In the living room of the Provincial Board member’s house, Fidel asks her, “hindi pa po kayo paalis?”

     “A, hindi pa. Maya-maya pa. Upo ka muna,” she says, gesturing towards the sofa. “Wala naman kaming sesyon ngayon e. Punta lang ako ng opisina, marami akong kelangang basahin from my staff. Alam mo na. So, ano, kumusta? Sana tinawagan mo na lang ako, iuutos ko lang naman na dalhin sa iyo ang mga litrato e.”

     “E, oho, yun po ang pinunta ko, yung picture ni Gov, tsaka yung sinasabi mong favorite mo. E kasi ikaw po, ayaw niyong kunan na lang kita ng bago e.”

     “Hindi, kasi nga favorite ko yun. Sa kampanya yun kinuha e, may maraming mga totoong supporters sa background. Pero hahanapin ko pa e. Hayaan mo, ipapahatid ko na lang sa inyo mamaya o bukas, ha, Fidel. Uy, halika muna, breakfast muna tayo.”

     “Huwag na po, nag-early breakfast na po ako, tsaka naghihintay po misis ko, gusto nun sabay kami mag-second breakfast e. Nga pala ho, … me itatanong ho sana ako sa inyo, e.”

     “O, sige, ano yun? Ikaw naman, sasagot ako, basta ba alam ko ang sagot e.”

     “Kasi ho ang subject po ng painting natin hindi lang po kayo, di ba, dapat napoportray din po ang politics niyo, ‘ikanga. . . . So, any ideas ho ba, sa ganung approach? Hindi po sa wala akong maisip, pero siyempre ho maganda yung galing po mismo sa inyo, baka ho makatulong.”

     “Mm,” says the Board Member. She is thinking.

     Later she says:

     “Well, siyempre sa akin, ano, uhm … gusto ko talagang background yung mga fisherfolk, di ba? Yung mga tao rito. Yung constituency. The people, ‘ika nga. Kasi, well, … kasi tao naman ang naglagay sa akin sa puwesto, di ba? So, puwede siguro gano’n, nando’n sila sa likod ko, halimbawa.”

     “Okay. Pero siyempre po, alam niyo naman po ang trademark ko, lahat po ng pinoportreyt ko nakatalikod—,”

     “Yes, yes, yes.”

     “—so, ibig niyo pong sabihin ang mga tao po ba nasa harap ng painting?”

     “Teka,” she says, “di ko masundan.”

     “Nakatalikod po kayo sa akin, lumilingon lang po kayo sa akin, di ho ba? So, sino po ako, ako ho ba ang tao sa likod niyo o ang mga tao ay nasa harap niyo? Kung nakaharap po kayo sa kanila, ibig pong sabihin nasa likod sila ng painting.”

     “Aaaaa, okay, kuha ko na. Well, sa palagay ko dapat nakaharap ako sa kanila, ang katawan ko at least, kasi parang . . . naglalakad ako patungo sa kanila. Pero siyempre, dahil lumilingon ako sa iyo, sa iyo rin ako nakaharap. Ng kaunti. Di ba?”

     They laugh.

     “Okay po, ganun po. Okay. Well, kaya ko lang naman ho naitanong lahat nun kasi . . . kasi sa palagay ko po dapat ang painting may political message din po, hindi lang po basta portrait lamang, di ho ba?” says Fidel, smiling.

     “A, of course, of course, alam ko iton. Ako pa? Pero, sabi ko nga sa iyo,” she says, “ideya ko lang iyon ha. . Nakakahiya naman sa ‘yo kung mapagkakamalan ang painting mong ito bilang bahagi ng propaganda ko.”

     She laughs, Fidel smiles.

     “Basta . . . ‘yun lang,” she says as Fidel stands up, “basta the people first and foremost, sa akin. . . . Okay?”

     Fidel nods, taking her handshake offer as he says his all right thanks again and have a good day.

@ @ @

Fidel and Joanna are in bed with the bedside lamp on. At this late hour they’re still talking. Pablo is asleep in his small bed in the master bedroom.

     “Ano ba yang si Pablo, maganda yata ilagay na yan sa kanyang kwarto, do’n na siya patulugin. Baka masanay yan dito, maging matatakutin yan later,” says Fidel.

     “Puwede rin.”

     After a pause, Fidel says:

     “Wana, nga pala, first week next month luluwas ako ng Maynila, sasama ba kayo ni Pablo?”

     “Ha? O, sige.”

     After another pause, Fidel says:

     “Nagdecide na pala ako, Joanne.”

     “Hm? Ano yon? . . . Huy, ano yon?”

     After another pause, he says:

     “Hindi na ako mapalagay, Jo. . . . Iba nang style ang gagawin ko, matapos ko lang lahat ng kinomission sa akin ng mga tao rito at iyong mga dinaan sa gallery.”

     Joanna looks at him sympathetically but couldn’t think of what to say. Then she says:

     “E, yun na ba yun? Alam mo, tulad ng parati kong sinasabi sa iyo, whatever it is na magiging desisyon mo tungkol sa painting mo, desisyon mo ‘yon. I’ll be there to support you lang.”

     She holds his hand.

     “Ang dahilan naman kung bakit sinasabi ko sa iyo ‘to, Joanne, … ay dahil merong risk dito. . . . Kung babaguhin ko ang collection ko, investment ‘yon. Ibig sabihin nun, yun ay parang, parang magsisimula uli tayo. Puwedeng tanggapin agad ng art market ko, puwede ring hindi. At kung mag-fail ako rito, kung di matatanggap ni Mrs. Lanuza o ng ibang mga galeri, kung halimbawa masyadong radikal sa kanila, o mahirap ibenta, well . . . siyempre hindi naman ako magpapaalam kay Mrs Lanuza, puwede siyang magalit sa’kin yun for not heeding her advice. Ibig sabihin, Jo, ang kinapital kong pera at, higit sa lahat, oras, puwedeng mapunta lang sa wala, . . . walang marating. . . . Of course mabebenta ko rin ang mga yon, pero maaaring matagal before they really sell. Malaking oras ang masasayang, mga apat na buwan at least, puwera pa ang paghintay ko ng booking. It could be a long stretch of time with me not earning anything, dahil pagpasok na pagpasok ko sa bagong style na ‘to, siyempre di na rin ako tatanggap ng mga commissioned works na sa lumang style ko pa. Sa bago kong style naman, hangga’t di ko pa nai-exhibit with some success, wala pang magpapagawa ng commissioned work sa akin sa style na iyon.”

     They are silent.

     “At ang risk dito, Joanne, . . .  well, may utang pa tayo sa bahay natin, sa kotse, at ang savings natin hindi pa ganun kalaki.”

     “Fidel,” says Joanna, “alam mo, kung sabihin ko sa iyo na huwag kang mag-risk at baka tayo mangutang uli, ano naman ang ni-ri-risk ko? Ang kaligayahan mo? Di na bale. Ano ang gagawin ko sa maraming pera kung di ka naman masaya? Gawin mo ang kailangan mong gawin. Andito lang ako sa tabi mo, at kung kailangan mong mag-struggle uli para sa art mo, well, let’s cross the bridge when we get there.”

     Fidel puts an arm around Joanna, then hugs her.

     “Totoo ang sabi ni Kuya. Kung gusto kong maging successful talaga, dapat sa mga bagay na hindi ako mapapagod, kahit marami akong ginagawa. Sa mga bagay na naroon ang aking . . . whatever, pulitika, anuman yun. Yung naroon ang aking giyera, alam mo? . . . Kelangan kong makita yon, Jo. At kung hindi, . . . kung hindi ay masasabi kong hindi pa rin ako nagtagumpay, sa totoo lang. Isa pa rin akong talunan. Dahil naging isang corrupt na artist.”

     Joanna reaches to kiss Fidel on the cheek.

     “Ito lang ang masasabi ko sa iyo, Fidel, ha,” Joanna almost whispers. “Narito ako sa pusisyon kung saan puwede kong sabihin na . . . isa, walang masama sa ginagawa mo ngayon, pinasasaya mo ang mga taong may nagustuhan sa mga gawa mo, mga taong may nakitang mga nakakatuwa sa mga ito. . . . O, dalawa, puwede kong sabihin sa iyo na ‘oo, Fidel, hanapin mo ang sunod mong gusto talagang ipinta, yung para rin sa iyo, para sa next phase mo.’ . . . Pero, ang sasabihin ko sa iyo ay hindi alinman dito sa dalawa. Ang sasabihin ko sa iyo ay ito. Naniniwala ako sa dalawang direksiyon na ‘to, Fidel. Na puwede mong makita ang iyong pulitika sa sarili mo o di kaya sa pulitika ng iba. Kaya, Fidel, hindi ako makapagbibigay sa iyo ng payo e. Nasa iyo lang talaga ang desisyon. At huwag mo kaming isipin, ha? Dahil ako, ako ay tutulong sa iyo sa lahat ng choices mo, Fidel. . . . Oo nga, nakikita kong naniniwala ka sa Kuya Federico, at iyon din ay dahil nakikita niya na hindi ka masaya sa ginagawa mo ngayon. Gusto niyang makatulong sa iyo. Ako rin, Fidel. Pero hindi ako ang makapagbibigay sa iyo ng payo kung saan ka dapat babaling, okay? Ang masasabi ko sa iyo, at ito ay ilang beses kong sasabihin sa ‘yo nang paulit-ulit, . . . saan ka man paroroon, kasama mo ako, ‘Del. At hinding-hindi kita puwedeng sisihin. Alam mo, to be redundant about it, sa tingin ko ngayon, alinman ang piliin mo, may sugal pa rin e. Kung di mo gawin ang bago mong iniisip, nakataya ang happiness mo. Fidel, nandito na tayo sa casino ng buhay. . . . Okay?”

     She hugs him. They hug for an entire 15 seconds.

     “Salamat, Jo.”

     After a pause, Joanna says:

     “Alam mo ang maganda? Puntahan mo ang mga kaibigan mo sa Tacloban, ang mga kapwa mo pintor sa lungsod na matagal mo nang nakabarkada. Tanungin mo sila, ang opinyon nila tungkol diyan. Of course, makakarinig ka ng iba’t-ibang opinyon, pero sa bandang huli, makakabuo ka ng sarili mong opinyon tungkol dito, sa hinahanap mong . . . pulitika whatever sa painting mo. Sa iyong art, Fidel. I think makakatulong sila sa iyo.”

     “Silang lahat bilib sa akin. Naiinggit sila sa akin. Sa success ko, sa opportunities na dumating sa akin. Si Fidel na noon ay nangungutang lang ng oil paint sa kanila, ngayon namimigay na. ‘Pero tingnan mo siya,’ sasabihin nila ngayon, ‘parang siya pa ngayon ang naghahanap ng advice sa atin kung ano ang kelangang hitsura ng art niya para sa kanyang next phase.’ Ang galing daw ng art ko, sabi nila, ang galing daw ng sense ko sa kulay, bagay na bagay daw sa mga bahay ng mga mayayaman sa Luzon at Cebu. Pero, uy, ‘nasaan,’ tanong niya ngayon, ‘nasaan ang pulitika sa mga gawa ko? Dahil tila wala, iyan ang sinasabi niya ngayon! Wala raw siyang makita!’”

     “Fidel, alam mong nariyan lang iyan. Makikita mo rin yan. Sabi nga ng Marxist critics, di ba, may pulitika sa lahat ng bagay. . . .”

     She kisses Fidel.

     “Sige. Thank you, ha. . . . Halika na nga, matulog na tayo.”

     She reaches to kiss him again. They kiss, then they sleep, Fidel turning toward the wall, Joanna turning toward Fidel with an arm around him.

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Fidel's March: A Screenplay of a Novel (Chapter 07)

OUR cameragirl follows Sienna around in the kitchen. But into the space of flashback memories, in the thirteen paragraphs below where I shall henceforth narrate a bit about Sienna’s history in this house, the camera cannot follow—only the cameras of memory, and a film editor’s splicing inserts of lower-resolution scratched photos into this memory space, can enter there.
     Sienna used to be an exceedingly thin girl of thirteen. She grew up in Soria, the daughter of a fisherman and a fishmonger woman, and worked in Tacloban for a while as a waitress after two years in high school, thereafter becoming at age fifteen—due to an environment-acquired interest in and dedication to seafoods—the assistant cook in that restaurant she worked for. Labor department people ate at the restaurant and knew about the fifteen-year-old cook but what did they care about it? The girl could cook, and if they threw her back in school, would she even have stayed in school? She’d certainly stray back into some other job in order to help her parents and eight-year-old sister, and there would only be that endless cycle until she reached her eighteenth year. So they left her alone, left the restaurant employing her alone, left a hundred other establishments employing teens and even children alone. Then, at age sixteen, she found work at Mr. Sagana’s. Mr. Sagana was her former teacher, who hired her as his live-in cook, and quite comfortably in her own hometown of Soria. With Mr. Sagana, she didn’t have to ask permission three days in advance to visit her parents in the little, quiet Samar town.
     Mr. Sagana was not a rich man. He was a public school teacher with a relatively low salary, thus regarded as the poor heir to his uncle’s old house in Soria. He could not expect his cousins to help him in the maintenance of the house, let alone in coming up with payment money for the inheritance and estate taxes due the state. His uncle, in his deathbed, told him—and all his other cousins who got their own house inheritances—to better give their houses to a third or fourth cousin if they can’t maintain the house passed on to them, to keep these houses from decaying. Mr. Sagana signed the condition, and though the lawyer said it may not necessarily be binding in the sense of having vague words, especially with no third party involved, overall it would just be a record of the nephew’s word of honor to his dying uncle, no more than that; only the two parties, and the lawyer and his two secretaries, acted as witnesses to these parties’ not-so-legally-binding word of agreement.

     The house Mr. Sagana inherited was one of twelve houses all over Samar that Mr. Sagana’s uncle, the old local passenger-launch shipping don, accumulated by accident. Mr. Sagana’s uncle, in all his almost-daily journeys to different ports of call within the island of Samar, and sometimes across the San Juanico Strait to the city of Tacloban, had accumulated these houses, mostly small ones except for that one he got in Soria, as collateral payment for unpaid dues by copra small dealers who intermittently got hit when suddenly copra’s price fell in the 1970s. Because of those unpaid dues, the don almost went bankrupt himself. His interest rates were definitely not in the level of usury, unlike many in Samar to whom the small copra dealers would often run to. Mr. Sagana’s uncle’s small houses went to Mr. Sagana’s second cousins. However, just for being a Soria citizen like his uncle, Mr. Sagana got the big house in Soria.

     The houses Mr. Sagana’s uncle would allow as collateral were the old ones, especially the ones with both the Spanish and American influences in their design. These copra dealers, although financially unstable, had their own set of acquisitions from relatives who had gone poor. Mr. Sagana’s uncle improved the houses he got, but according to their original time’s architecture, for consistency, calling on a friend expert to consult on the melding of colonial Spanish wood and iron embellishments, etc., and some American-era simplicity of lines and color added into these structures, reflected in the roofing structure of, say, his new Soria house. The result here was a combination of Spanish openness due to the Spaniards’ long exposure to both the tropical archipelago’s equatorial hot sun and the Pacific cold breeze, side by side the American quick adaptations, a product perhaps of the new colonists’ desire to transfer American New England or Georgian shapes into Filipino buildings. The ultimate resultant was a house with natural ventilation, reflected in the wide doors and windows, inconsistent with the hot ceilings that did not involve insulation between roof and ceiling but mere galvanized iron roofing sheets not even a foot apart from the wooden ceiling. Mr. Sagana’s uncle’s interest in old Philippine architecture started from his high school days in the island seminary, when he was assigned by the rector to help in the library of the high school dean, a certain Fr. Dumas, who dabbled in architectural research. Mr. Sagana’s uncle’s interest in the subject, embracing both virtues and flaws, he continued in the redesign of his first boat, inherited from his father, which became the most popular launch with a canteen serving beer and a roof deck with tables fixed to the floor. Within a year, Mr. Sagana’s uncle, who quickly became a sort of local don sponsoring town councilors’ elections, bought a second and third boat. Then a fourth. And a fifth. And the legend goes on.

     Soria was not the don’s headquarters, but in this house in Soria—which became his vacation house for its desirable view of the San Juanico strait—the don employed five helpers. Mr. Sagana, however, upon his inheritance of the house, couldn’t afford those five helpers, not even a weekend laundrywoman. A live-in cook and housemaid would be nice, but that too was out of the question. Mr. Sagana was an only child whose widower father had also just died. His cousin, Albert, the don’s sole child as well, immigrated to Europe and promised as an alienated homosexual not to come back to these atmosphere of homophobic launch boats and heckling palm tree-laden beaches. Mr. Sagana thus became one of twelve nephews and nieces in whose hands his uncle had no choice but to leave the houses, sadly and out of spite for his son who left him, formalizing the papers in front of a lawyer and the inheritors as he awaited his death by cancer creeping inside his colon. Nobody knew how father and son first drifted apart, though it is easy to conjecture; many, even today, say it was obviously due to the son’s homosexuality and the father’s strong shame over it.

     Mr. Sagana, however, a mere teacher—as we said—from Guiuan, another town in Samar at the southeastern tip of the island, not only was not a fan of such houses (if only he had the resources to build his own according to his own modest modernist liking!), he also had not the wherewithal to maintain the house’s painting and wood upkeep with re-varnishings or replacements. Add to that, his teaching salary in his new school in Soria was smaller than what he used to get in Guiuan.
     Luckily, Mr. Sagana had a daughter whose handsome American-mestiza mother (estranged from Mr. Sagana due to a love affair she had with her male dentist) trained her so hard not only to be finicky about housework but also with her studies. In no time, the daughter’s mother would join her and Mr. Sagana in this house when her doctor-lover died and her daughter needed all the help to finish her nursing studies attained through a scholarship care of the then-mayor’s education program. It did not matter that the mayor sponsoring the scholarship hated the don who used to own Mr. Sagana’s house; Mr. Sagana’s daughter’s industrious studies deserved the award. The new objective of the Sagana family, therefore, became that of pushing the daughter to finish her course, away from potential boyfriends and other political or social temptations, for her to take all the necessary exams and thereby qualify to work somewhere abroad, anywhere abroad.
     Maria Lourdes finished her nursing degree and after a year in a Tacloban hospital easily found work in Hawaii. Soon, Mr. Sagana was able to hire a cook for him and his wife, two cooks later in fact, but only because their first cook also had to work at a roadside canteen in the evening, and Mr. Sagana didn’t want to get rid of her because of pity. Rumor had it, though, that the cook also worked as a prostitute at night, soliciting potential clients from that roadside canteen. Others said she merely had to get away from the house to avoid Mr. Sagana’s sundowning advances. The second cook the Saganas hired was Sienna. The first cook later died of dengue fever in the city of Catarman up north while on holiday with a northerner boyfriend. Mr. Sagana became a depressed man after that, so depressed in fact that he lost his wife again, to another third party, a man in a wheelchair that Mrs. Sagana met in the town plaza. Rumors had it that Mr. Sagana also had an affair with the remaining maid, Sienna, an affair which Mrs. Sagana supposedly knew about, but since the marriage was not that healthy from the beginning, it didn’t really matter; each had a “diversion,” it seemed, if the gossips were to be believed. Now, behind all this, the house revived its old glory with the new American money Mr. Sagana received from her daughter in Hawaii. It was not true that Mr. Sagana had been suffering from dementia.
     But Mr. Sagana’s mysterious depression, from losing his first maid, left an emotional vacuum in the house. Sienna, affected by all that was happening in the family, cooked, cleaned the house, ate while working, ate when tired, gardened while eating, accompanied Mr. Sagana to the bank to get his checks from Maria Lourdes and to the noodle shop right after the bank. And that was about it, her routine. Sienna never understood why she had to accompany Mr. Sagana to the bank and the noodle shop. Was it to fan the rumors, to spite it? She never knew the answer. She never really cared; the noodles were good.
     After becoming aware of the situation in Samar island, a decision was made: Maria Lourdes, angry at her mother’s new abandonment of her father, decided to bring Mr. Sagana to Hawaii, promising never to come back for as long as her mother was alive, and so had the newly-refurbished house up for sale, ready to be taken advantage of by anyone who could see its offered price was at the lowest an antique but well-maintained house of the old intricate architecture could fetch. Sienna, grown quite fat now from all the boredom and acquired depression, all the consequent eating in the couple of years she spent in the quiet Sagana house, went back to her cook’s job at that restaurant in the city of Tacloban in Leyte island.

     It was Sienna’s birthday when Fidel and Joanna came into that now-famous old restaurant. The restaurant had become reputable for its local cuisine, and the artist-couple were the only patrons that noon, that Sunday noon when almost everybody was away at the beach resorts of the city and the nearby beach towns. After Fidel asked her a question about a recipe and then about the people of the city absent in the restaurants, boisterous Sienna became comfortable with her sole customers and sat down at the table opposite the couple’s table and told them her story, about this day being her birthday, the new recipes she has learned in this restaurant, and even told them the most wonderful stories to tell about her days in Mr. Sagana’s antique intricate old house that was a bit hard for her to clean, she said. She went on and on about the two years she worked there before returning to the restaurant, feeling familiar now with Joanna and Fidel who struck her as affable, likeable, approachable, and quite appreciative of the food she prepared. Fidel and Joanne, married now with a two-year-old kid and on vacation from Manila, had their interest piqued by Sienna’s stories, and that was the beginning of that. The couple checked out the house, fell in love with it and the clean little town above the harbor overlooking the strait, talked to the Saganas’ lawyers, and Sienna resigned from her new old cook’s job at the restaurant to become the new-rich couple’s cook in their new provincial headquarters.
     Joanna and Fidel only intended the house to be their provincial vacation house, a hideaway from dirty Tacloban whenever they came visiting their province to be near relatives. Soria was, after all, one of the cleanest towns in the whole region, despite a few dogs roaming the streets. Surprise, surprise: Fidel and Joanna felt that Fidel could paint better here, and a month later all their things were moved in from Manila by a big delivery van that trekked the length of the Bicol peninsula, crossed the ferry to Samar island, and traveled the length of the island to its southern highway fronting the San Juanico Strait that led to the little quaint town of Soria. The couple’s new SUV car was driven by Fidel himself. The rest of their furniture for the new house Fidel took from their house in Tacloban, Joanne from theirs. Fidel, after getting emailed approval from his brother the architect, rented out their Tacloban house to a coffee shop, and luckily the coffeehouse made a wonderful job of propping up the place with new structural additions. Joanna’s father’s house, on the other hand, had been shut down for a long time now, with furniture covered by thin cotton sheets, although every now and then cleaned up by the caretaker couple occupying with their seven-year-old son the small house in the large garden.

     A year later, Sienna, at age nineteen, had gotten rid of almost half of her accumulated fat, happier now with her new old work under new bosses, happy too with her gardening and new concrete little room in the backyard with a TV set; it seemed to her now that eating was a waste of time, interfering with her play. She had inadvertently diminished her eating, but improved her cooking. Only one thing was wrong: she was puzzled by Fidel, unsure if his cranky face had ever really been happy with her dishes.

@ @ @

“Wow, ang ganda ng view dito sa likod,” said Joanne.
     From the little balcony in the room in back of the house, she saw what could be her backyard garden. An avocado tree and some tall bushes foregrounded a view of the San Juanico Strait below and far Leyte island across the water.
     “Hindi tayo nagkamali sa paglipat ng studio ko rito,” Fidel said. “Of course magbabago ang art ko nito, mas magiging . . . makatotohanan? . . . Dahil dito merong mga totoong mangingisda, di ba? Hindi nalang mangingisda ng isip ko, o di kaya mga mangingisdang galing sa mga pictures sa magazines, o sa mga naaabutan nating iilang mangingisda every time nagba-Batangas tayo, sa mga pangmayamang beach na ang tanging mangingisda mong makikita ay yun lang mga suppliers sa mga restaurant sa area. Dito, makukunan ko sila anytime, sa mismong mga barangay nila.”
     “Puwede mo rin silang gawing models sa ilang works mo, actually,” said Joanne, excitedly. “At ‘pag nag-exhibit ka sa Maynila puwede mong dalhin ang ilan sa kanila sa opening para ma-introduce mo sa mga guests, o di ba?”
     “Aba,” said Fidel, smiling, “magandang idea yan, a.”
     They drank wine and ate cheese in the balcony overlooking the weeds in the backyard and the roofs on th e tree-laden slope that fell into the part of the town fronting the strait and its few boats.
     They sat there a long time, talking. Of course they spoke mostly Waray here, the language of the region, since they were from here and all their neighbors were Warays. In Manila they would speak Tagalog even to each other, if only because they got used to speaking Tagalog outdoors that they didn’t feel the need to shift into Waray when they were by themselves at a restaurant table; after all, they were both quite adept at the Manila and Tagalog capital region’s language, as well as the English of the urban learned and the Taglish slangs of so many different social niches.
     But Fidel and Joanna’s Waray is different from the older folks’ Waray. As a young couple, theirs had a lot of English and even Tagalog mixed into the flow. Certainly I would quote them here in Tagalog and/or English, and that’s all because I’m writing this story for you, my reader-comrades in all the regions, and we all know that the only language we can all understand in all our country’s linguistic regions is Tagalog and English. Right? So. The Waray conversations have all been translated.

@ @ @

Of course you’d also want to know why I’m narrating my story in English. It’s simple: this is a novel, and most of you who read novels read English ones. You’re quite used to the English language when reading the novel, even those of you who prefer to speak Tagalog when conversing. The only ones used to reading novels in Tagalog nowadays are the consumers of Tagalog romance novels. Am I right? We converse largely in Tagalog, but our broadsheet newspapers are all in English! Right? So.
     But, on the other hand, why write the dialogue in Tagalog and/or Taglish? Well, I’m a screenwriter and cinema director, and much like the film dramatist that I am, I deem it stupid to quote Tagalog speakers (much less Waray speakers) in English, even in a screenplay written in English, translating their lines into English when they’ve said these in Tagalog or bilingual Tagalog-English or Waray. Why ruin a good thing unnecessarily? Their Waray lines automatically translated into Tagalog would be the necessary ruination, since it’s for a national audience and there may be no budget for closed-captioning.

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Where were we? Oh! Well, I—Vicente—am here, shooting Fidel with my cameragirl’s camera, spying on Fidel, so to speak, and invisibly too, as you well know. I am already up, quite before the town is up, and that’s because my time is different from the country’s time.
     Vicente, that’s me, there stands outside the gate waiting for Fidel to appear on the front porch. Soon the painter would be up, this early in the morning of March 6, not to jog or drive somewhere, but to walk around the now-familiar territory. Vicente waits. He always waits. Vicente and I would always wait.

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