Fidel's March: A Screenplay of a Novel (Chapter 09)

FIDEL was in his studio again, sitting on the studio couch watching the news.
     Another journalist, the news was saying, had been found dead in her car in what police believed was a case of suicide, where she was assumed to have driven herself off an overpass road onto a fortunately uninhabited house below. The reporter’s office mates did not believe this, however, saying the reporter had been getting death threats after she divulged a missing fertilizer fund from the Department of Agriculture that appeared, according to her, to have been used in the reelection campaign of the president, his excellency Divino Tala.
     The TV news report Fidel was watching now about the reporter’s death included a clip of President Tala’s interview with CNN International where His Excellency told the global network that the accident would be thoroughly investigated. The president said the nation should put aside any suspicions the government had anything to do with the accident and the spate of killings of journalists in the country, saying the government is sparing no effort to investigate each and every single one of these cases to find out who the perpetrators were, the people behind these very murders and disappearances.
     The newscast segued to the anchor’s talk with a professor guest in the studio news room. The professor being interviewed was saying: since this former vice-president was catapulted into office seven years ago, after a series of non-violent people’s protests and several government officials’ withdrawal of support for the beleaguered preceding president led him to resign and give way to his vice-president, around a hundred journalists had already disappeared or had been found dead in mysterious accidents. Another guest in the studio was a spokesman for the armed forces, who was saying many of these missing journalists have long been suspected of coddling communist propagandists who were friends of theirs and were possibly part of the communist insurgency themselves, and thus may have died in skirmishes between the communists and the armed forces, or killed by their own comrades who may have suspected them of being double agents. As for the journalists who were missing but were not suspected of being communists, meanwhile, the armed forces spokesman said it may have been pure coincidence that they all died in accidents while reporting or investigating different corruption anomalies. After all, he said, reporters are always investigating something and not all of them die in accidents.
     And, please, he said, accidents happen to people. An accident can happen to anybody, journalist or not.

     A year previous, the news anchor was saying, a politician who journeyed to his province’s capital to protest election results in his district was ambushed in a remote part of a provincial highway. Nine journalists who followed his convoy were killed in the ambush, with the female reporters who survived the massacre believed to have been raped before being shot. The female reporters’ bodies were also chopped into several parts to fit into barrels. The barrels were located a few meters from the ambush scene, beside bags of unused and now-hardened cement and sand wet from the rain. Autopsies of the body parts were still able to gather sperm samples that could have been used for matching with the DNA of the arrested suspects—suspects that included the guards and two sons of the politician’s contender—, but these sperm samples were later stolen and the investigation, after much delay and countless sessions with very expensive lawyers, was not able to go any further. The nine journalists killed were the 89th-98th journalists to have gone missing or to have been killed during the reign of President Tala, touted by the opposition to be the democratic president with the lowest approval rating in the history of democratic presidencies in the country.

     Inside sources have speculated, said the news anchor to remind his TV audience, that then national security adviser Gaudencio Morales and interior and local government secretary Clodualdo Coco may have had a hand in this ambush drama that, however, went into the wrong hands and thus went awry, resulting in the murders that should not have happened in that way. Other sources also speculated that the supposed ambush drama was designed for a martial law declaration in the province as an experiment for a larger, nationwide declaration. The objective of all that, these sources said, would be the extension of the president’s stay in office for an indefinite period. The sources’ theories, later denied by the government as a matter of course, were borne out of previous rumors of the two cabinet men’s alleged hand in several regional election rigging in favor of the president’s party as well as in several bombings that killed a few people and ruined train tracks and a mall at the height of a failed impeachment proceeding against the same president. The anchor reminded his audience, too, that the two cabinet members, in a separate interview, have already laughed off the allegations as—

     Joanna appeared at the door and called to Fidel: “Uy, halika na, kakain na tayo!”

     “Sige, mauna na kayo, mamaya na ako.”

     “Lalamig ang pagkain.”

     “Mauna na kayo,” said Fidel impatiently, “tatapusin ko lang ‘tong news. Bakit ba, ura-urada kelangan tatayo agad ako? Me pinapanood ako.”

     Joanne was speechless. Then she turned to the TV and watched the news herself. When the news shifted to another headline, she turned and went out.

     Fidel just kept on watching, a little regretful about what he just said.

@ @ @

Fidel and Joanne sat eating, not talking to each other. Soon Fidel drank his water and stood to go.

     “Sa’n ka matutulog?” asked Joanne, not looking at him.

     “Di ko alam,” said Fidel, and went on.

     “Sa studio,” said Joanne, looking at her plate. “Okay.”

@ @ @

March 7. In the Roxases’ front garden, the 17-year-old cameragirl walks toward a door under the house’s front porch and stairs. She opens that door and goes in. Inside, Joanna is ironing clothes. The cameragirl beams her camera toward a window between the room where Joanna was and an exterior area that was still beneath the shadow of the second floor of the house. The camera could see Sienna, the maid, behind this window, hurling clothes into a washing machine. Where Sienna is standing is a wall-less large area with a tiled floor that adjoins the lawn of the backyard garden. Pablo is there with Sienna, playing with a toy car on a long table in this patio-cum-verandah.

     Back in the ground floor room, Joanna is ironing clothes. Sometimes she stops. She is thinking, looking sad, and is caught by the camera shaking her head and sighing. On the shirt she is ironing a tear suddenly falls. She is silently crying. Now she is ironing her own blouse, which she intentionally burns with the iron.

@ @ @

In Fidel’s studio, Fidel looks at a painting in progress with an orange underpainting, and it has on it preliminary strokes and dabs depicting now a fish girl looking out to sea, with the girl’s nose barely visible. The painting is on an easel. Fidel looks at it long. Then he picks up a large brush, and suddenly Fidel brushes on the still-wet oil paints and ruins the picture. He picks up a container of liquid paint or turpentine, throws the paint or turpentine on the canvas, then looks at a bunch of ready orange-underpainted canvases leaning on a wall of his studio. He hurls the remaining turpentine at these too.

@ @ @

March 8, afternoon. Fidel crosses the San Juanico Bridge toward Leyte.

     When he arrives in Tacloban City, he drives to a poor section of the town beside the city’s Cancabato Bay. He stops by an ill-maintained wooden house. A fat man with a goatee and in his mid-thirties calls him from across the wooden house, seeming to have bought a pack of cigarettes from a sari-sari store. Beside the store was a huddle of men, some of whom had no shirts on.

     “Pare! Fidel, ‘pare!” the fat goateed man says, crossing the street. “Napasyal ka, ‘dre! Halika, dito tayo. May bisita ako e, modelo ko. Pero okay lang, pareho naman tayo pintor e. Pakilala ko sa ‘yo, ‘pare.” He adds, “girlfriend ko ‘to, e,” then laughs.

     They enter the wooden house into a small room with a dining table to the right and a living area set to the left. A somewhat enigmatically sad-faced young woman, if that’s the only way one can describe her in words, is there by a doorway, and she looks like someone in her early-twenties. She fully comes out from the room behind the living-room set, wearing nothing but a robe. She joins them in the goateed fat man’s small living area cum painting studio. She sits on the old settle with the wooden backrest, and Fidel decides to sit in the dining area and talk from there as his friend goes back to work on his painting beside the living room-set, saying:

     “Pasensiya ka na ‘pare ha, may session kasi kami ngayon e, tapos pipik-apin na ‘to mamayang hatinggabi e. Bibilisan ko lang ‘to ha. Tapos usap na tayo. Gusto mo beer, ‘pare? Karissa, puwedeng ikuha mo muna kami ng beer? Please lang? Napadaan ka, ‘dre. Isang karangalan ‘to, man.”

     Karissa obliges. She walks toward the kitchen where the fridge is and takes out three beer bottles and a pot of something and puts them all on the table. When she came in, the the three lite-beer bottles’ necks all hung from between her right hand’s fingers, the pot’s one of two handles carried by her left hand. But she then goes back to the kitchen with the pot of kaldereta (Fidel’s goateed friend told him what it was) and shoves it onto the stove positioned right behind the wide kitchen doorway, heating it over a slow fire. She takes a bottle opener hanging on the kitchen wall and comes back to the table to open the three bottles.

     “Waitress ‘yan si Karissa dati, e,” says Fidel’s fat friend, laughing, “kaya ganyan kabilis.”

     Karissa smiles, looking at Fidel, takes her bottle from the dining area table, goes to sit on one of the square wooden armchairs in front of the living area’s coffee table, that one facing the wall by the small house’s front door, and drinks her beer.

     The goateed fat friend’s painting on an easel in the room, more particularly the living area part of the room as more of it was to the living area than the dining area, is now behind the sitting Karissa. But if one is to walk from the small house’s front door straight to the kitchen doorway, they would have to go around this painting on the easel, as it is almost at the head of the small rectangular dining table. In front of where the fat friend with the goatee sits now on a high stool by the end of the rectangular dining table, the nude painting-in-progress could not wait for the painter’s brush to touch her again, and so the girl stands and strips without a signal and arranges herself on the wider living-area settle.

     “Ilang minuto na lang ‘to, ‘pa’re, tatapusin ko na lang ‘to ha, tapos simulan na natin ang inuman natin. Bihira mo na ako dalawin dito ngayon a.”

     “Sige lang, ‘dre, take your time,” Fidel says.

     “Kukunin na kasi ‘to mamayang hatinggabi, e. Apuradong-apurado, ‘tong kliyente ko. Kaya acrylic na ginamit ko para madaling matuyo. Tapos itong si Karissa, di puwede mamaya; kaya heto, kelangang bilisan ko ang imahe niya. Nga pala, ‘pare, nagpunta ako sa U.P. Tacloban kahapon; exhibit ng mga fans mong estudyante ro’n, ‘pare. Hindi paintings nila ang naka-ekshibit kundi mga repros ng mga maliliit mong paintings, ‘dre, pinalaki nila! Pero elegante naman, ‘pare, ginastusan. Nakadikit sa plywood, laminated. Nagpaalam ba sa ‘yo ang mga yun?”

     He is a happy man, this fat man. Fidel couldn’t wait for his goateed friend and drinks his beer.

     “Oo naman,” Fidel says. He doesn’t seem to want to discuss it.

     “Teka muna ha,” Karissa says, who then stands up naked and walks toward the kitchen. The fat artist does a few more retouching. Karissa reappears, bringing the heated pot earlier on slow heat, puts it on the tile trivet at the center of the table, then goes back to the kitchen to get the painters a couple of saucers and forks and a serving spoon. Fidel says “thank you, Karissa.” She lies back on the settle.

@ @ @

The painting has progressed. It looks like a cheap rip-off of a Michelangelo fresco, or a Velázquez. The fat artist continues to work on it even as he and Fidel drink beer. He tells Fidel:

     “Ang politics sa art ko, ‘pare, hindi mo yan makikita sa kasaysayan ng mundo, ‘pare. Hindi mo rin ‘to makikita sa lipunan, ‘pare. Walang mata ng peryodista, sinasabi ko sa ‘yo, ang makakakita ng politics ko, ‘pare. Ang politics ko, ‘pare, narito.”

     The artist had put his left palm on his chest.

     “Sa puso. Of course,” says Fidel with smiling eyes.

     “No, ‘pare. Hindi sa puso. Hindi sa literal na puso. Kasi it’s a matter of faith, ‘pare.”

     “Faith,” Fidel echoed, doubtful. “Faith saan?”

     “Sa art, ‘pare. Ang art, ‘pare, yan ang religion ko, ‘tol; yan din ang politics ko, ‘pare.”

     As if dismissing the artist’s pronouncements, as if these were of no consequence, Fidel had asked, “Bago model mo, ‘pare?”

     “Ha? Sino, si Karissa? Hindi, ‘pare, six months nang nagmomodel sa ‘kin yan. Nakita ko yan diyan sa me sidewalk sa me Mercury Drug, e, isang gabi. Nagbabarbecue ng satay sa labas. E walang customer, kaya nag-usap na lang kami. Kaya heto, may hanapbuhay siya sa araw.”

     Karissa looks at Fidel who’s been smiling at her. She says “hi” to him again.

     It seems they’ve now finished around five bottles each. Fidel stands up to say goodbye.

     “Sige, ‘pare, magda-drive pa ako e. Punta ka ba sa film festival?”

     “Aba, oo, ‘pare, para sa amin ang proceeds nun e. Teka, ‘pare, matatapos na ‘to e. Huwag ka muna umalis.”

     “Huwag na, ‘pare, malalasing ako nyan, nagdadrive ako e.”

     “O, sige, ‘pare. Dalas-dalasan mo naman dalaw sa mga artist dito, ‘pare.”

     “O, sige ba. Sige, Karissa, thanks ha. Jesse.”

     “Okay, ‘pare, di na kita hatid sa kotse mo ha.”

     “Okay lang.”

     Then he’s out of Jesse’s studio.

@ @ @

Not feeling like he heard anything from Jesse of value to him, Fidel heads for home. It’s getting dark for the long drive, but then he passes a kind of interesting Portuguese-Indian-Arab fast casual restaurant called Zanzibar and decides to eat there first. He goes in and looks at the overhead menu from his table.

     While eating his caldo verde, Fidel sees another painter-friend come into the restaurante. This friend went directly to look up at the overhead menu after putting on round-framed John Lennon-esque spectacles and talks to the man at the counter about what he wants. Fidel has recognized his friend from the moment he entered the café, a balding fortyish fellow, but his friend didn’t see him. So he calls this artist-friend before the latter could sit at another table. The friend is surprised and instantly elated to find Fidel in the small bistro that, Fidel gathered later, was also an inn for travelers from Samar or distant Leyte towns.

     “Captain Robert, ‘pare,” Fidel had softly called.

     “Uy, Fidel!” Captain Robert laughed. “Pasensya ka na, ‘pare, mahina na mata ko e, di kita nakita,” he laughs again. “Kumusta?”

     “This is a coincidence, ‘pare,” says Fidel. “Galing lang ako kina Jesse, e, nag-beer kami while he painted.”
     “O talaga?”
     “So, Captain, my Captain, kumusta painting mo?”

     “Hayun, ‘pare, paisa-isa lang, alam mo na. Di tulad mo, paisa-isang katerba. Alam mo naman ang local market namin dito, mahina, tsaka wala tayong tourism dito. Probinsiyang-probinsya, ‘pare; mabagal ang benta, mura presyo,” he says, laughing, while waiting for his food to be served at the bar. “Tsaka busy rin ako sa serbisyo e. Ayoko na ngang magsundalo, kung may mabilis na kita lang na milyones sa painting ko e. Tsaka, ‘pare,” he adds, in a mock whisper, “huwag mo akong tawaging Captain dito, wala akong alalay e,” snickering.

     Robert is joking. He does not need his men around here, and in even in such a case wherein he might, he could both take care of himself as well as get ready help from people in this small city where he is well-liked. Apart from that, there is this rumor that even “the enemy” likes him as much, rumor that his generals aren’t necessarily comfortable with. Finally, his reputation as a loner officer is perhaps due to his high trust toward his intelligence office staff monitoring suspicious individuals in the city, aside from the fact that he is also known as one of the weird painters of northeastern Leyte.

     When they are almost finished with their food, Robert says:

     “Aba, ‘pa’re, gusto mo daan tayo sa isang quiet bar later? May acoustic Waray rock music diyan sa malapit, ‘pa’re. Medyo madilim lang. Pero ngayong oras wala pang live na tugtugan do’n, do’n natin pag-usapan ang painting mo, ‘pa’re.”

     “Naku, magda-drive pa ako, Rob. At naghihintay si missus.”

     “Pare, ida-drive kita sa inyo. Tapos magco-commute ako pabalik dito.”

     “Sa ganitong oras, wala ka nang masasakyan pabalik dito, Rob. Patutulugin kita sa bahay no’n,” Fidel says, laughing. “At di mo dapat ginagamit ang ‘commute’ na word, ‘pare, when you mean travel by public transport alone. Philippine English yun. Sabihin mo ‘take public transport’ o ‘take the bus’. Sorry sa lecture ha.”

     They laugh.

     “Ganun ba? Hmm, ‘yan ang gusto ko sa ‘yo, marami kang alam, parati akong may natututunang bago,” Robert jokes, but definitely grateful for the bit of new knowledge.
     “Sa West kasi, pare, ginagamit ang salitang commute pag nakatira ka sa labas ng city at sa city ka nagtatrabaho. Nagcocommute ka, papasok at pauwi, at kasama doon ang mga me kotse. Pag sa city ka naman nakatira at sa labas ka ng city nagtatrabaho, tawag sa ‘yo reverse commuter, kahit may sariling motorsiklo ka.”

     “Hmm. Ganun pala. E, maganda pala ang gamit nila ng salitang ‘yon, walang elitism. Ang may kotseng nagko-commute at ang walang kotseng nagko-commute, parehong nagko-commute. Gusto ko yan.” They laugh.
     “Tama,” says Fidel.

@ @ @

They are in a small bar now with a portrait hanging on the wall.
     “Pare, pininta ko ‘yan,” the Captain says, pointing at the wall portrait. “Si Filomeno Ilustrado, illustrious playwright at makata ng mga komunistang Waray, ‘pare, na napaslang ko rin noong dekada ‘80. Ang may-ari ng bar na ‘to ay isa ring dating comrade ni Filomeno, kilala ko siya. . . . Ngayon, nung napatay ng mga tauhan ko ‘yang si Filomeno, nabalitaan kong magsusurender na pala sana siya, kaya, hayun. Nakakalungkot. Walang pamilya, ‘pare, walang kamag-anak dito, mukhang Ilokano yata. Pero napadpad sa Samar command ng New People’s Army, at naging mahusay na makata sa wikang Waray. O, di ba? At isa pa, bagamat political ang tatlong maiiksing dula niya, ang mga tula niya ay puro tungkol sa halaman at malamig na mga lawa sa itaas ng mga bundok, ‘pare. Naging taga-hanga ako ng napaslang ko, ‘pare. Dalawa sa poetry books niya, meron ako.”

     “Oh, of course, of course, kilala ko ‘yan, pare,” says Fidel.

     “Buti ka pa kilala mo! Ang mga Waray ngayon, wala nang nakikilala kundi mga Kano o European o kung sino-sinong foreigner. Wala nang may pakialam sa kanilang sariling arts history, pare. 0.1 porsyento lang ng mga pumapasok sa bar na ‘to ang nakakakilala riyan, pare, o sa sino pa mang playwright o makata sa wikang Waray. Kahit nga ikaw na pinakasikat sa Waray art world ngayon, pare, ikaw at ang kapatid mong arkitekto, at saka ang baklang direktor na ‘yon, si Manuel White ba ‘yon, ng Samar? . . . walang makakakilala sa inyo at nang kapatid mo at sa direk na ‘yon sa mga nandito sa bar na ‘to ngayon. Ang mga hero nila ngayon ay mga Amerikanong singers na kumakanta tungkol sa mga tren sa Amerika, e wala naman tayong tren dito sa mga isla natin. Hindi ako nagtataka kung bakit maraming nationalist ang nag-decide na magkomunista na lang. Dahil ang gobyerno natin, wala ring pakialam, pare. Lahat nga ng goods ngayon, gawang China, di ba? At walang nagrereklamo.”

     Fidel smiles. A lanky waiter approaches them, asking about their order. Robert asks for two bottles of San Miguel Beer and expensive peanuts. Fidel corrects the order, saying he’ll just have a Coke.

     “Kakaiba ka talaga sa ibang sundalo, man,” Fidel says. “Masyado kang nationalist e, regionalist pa, habang ang ibang tulad mo ay walang pakialam, trabaho lang. Kung ano ang iutos na massacre di kikuwestiyunin,” Fidel adds.

     “Hindi naman, pare. Marami kami. Si Gringo Honasan, dakilang coup d’etat icon, ay maaaring nasyonalista rin, at least sa salita, elite-serving man siya kung ituring natin. Bihira mag-Ingles, pare. Di ko nga lang masabi kung totoong nasyonalista nga sa paniniwala, o isa ring tradisyonal na pulitiko tulad ng kanyang Juan Ponce Enrile. Sabi nga ng iba sa ‘min, nananatili lang daw na tuta ng defense minister ni Marcos, hanggang naging senador na siya! I am inclined to believe it.”

     The Captain shakes his head, though Fidel simply smiles, unsure about how to take Robert’s political statement.

     “Totoo kaya ‘yon?” Fidel asks, pretending innocence. Back in university, he used to join peace rallies against the “militarization” of Fidel Ramos’ civilian government bureaus. The Honasan-Enrile connection was also spoken like bible truth, especially after Ramos’ pardon of the former colonel as a leader of various coup d’etat attempts during the Corazon Aquino era.

     One other table in the bar is occupied by three male customers. At another table, two young women are having cocktails, most likely pickup artists’ “game” waiting for nightfall or just part of the rehearsing acoustic band’s groupies. It looks like a relatively inexpensive bit of a bar, but it is early yet to expect a lot of people.

     Now they’ve finished their bottles and Robert orders another round, another beer for him and a whiskey and Coke this time around for Fidel. Robert is saying:

     “Alam mo, pare, sa akin ha. Sa akin, there are things higher than politics, pare. Okay? Kahit ang politics sa religion, walang kuwenta yan e. Ang religion, pare, industriya yan e. Pinatatakbo yan ng mga industriyalista, ika nga. Ang tawag natin sa kanila . . . religious leaders, pero businessmen din ang mga ‘yon.”

     One of the young ladies is now talking to somebody on her cellphone. She stands up, kisses her friend goodbye. The other three male customers have gone earlier.

     “Ang totoong politics, pare,” Robert is saying, “nasa kaluluwa, pare, nasa pakiramdam mo, pare, hindi nasa paniniwala ng simbahan na minanufacture lang, pare, ng kanilang pabrika ng mga kuwento. Naalala mo yung painting ko na kinantot ko ang wet paint, pare, ng hubo’t hubad ako? Yun, nandun ang politics ko, pare.”

     They laugh, remembering that private exhibition.

     “Buti di nagagalit sa ‘yo ang tenyente heneral mo, pare,” Fidel offers, smiling.

     “Alam mo namang pseudonym ang gamit ko sa art ko, ito talaga, oo. At kahit pa alam niya ang pinaggagagawa ko, e mga elite dito ang mga kliyente ko e, aangal siya?”

     Fidel laughs. Robert does not.

     “Sorry, pare, you were saying?”

     “Sabi ko, pare, ang politics ko hindi politics ng lipunan, pare, kundi politics ko, ng indibidwal na si ako. Kahit ang malawak na art ng mundo, pare, hindi masasabing mas mataas sa indibidwal. Ang indibidwal ang hari, pare. Ang kalayaan ng indibidwal, pare. Yan ang pinaglalaban ko. Sandali, pare, ha, itutuloy, itutuloy.”

     Robert gets up and walks toward the men’s room. On his way to the men’s room he whispers something to the remaining woman on the other table, and then proceeds to go pee. On his way back he takes the woman’s hand and she joins Fidel and Robert. Robert calls to the waiter to give her a cocktail.

     Later there is a bit of a lonely acoustic instrumental-music show. Only another table got occupied, the tables’ population now totaling six male guests (including Fidel and Robert) in that smallish bar that could actually table seventy-five. Despite the small audience, now it isn’t quiet anymore.

     “Medyo mahal lang ang beer dito, pare, pero may live music. Kaya okay din, di ba?” Robert says.

     As the show progresses, Robert fondles one of the young woman’s breasts under her blouse in the dark.

@ @ @

Outside by the curb across Fidel’s car, Robert whispers to Fidel, saying:

     “Pasensiya ka na, pare, di kita mada-drive. May kasama ako e. Kailangan kong i-drive ang maliit kong jeep dito.”

     Fidel smiles.

     “Okay lang, Robby, kaya ko naman e,” Fidel says. “Enjoy the night.”

     “Sige, pare,” Robert says as he and the girl walk toward Robert’s Willys MB. “Drive home safely, pare. Don’t drink anymore and drive!”

     Fidel laughs.

     “Thanks, pare,” he says.

     He walks to his car, still okay.

     Suddenly, Robert comes up running toward Fidel, the woman with him not crossing the street with Robert but still on the narrow sidewalk, laughing. Robert says to Fidel, a mildly drunk arm on Fidel’s shoulder, “ingat ka, pare, ha? Ayokong makulong ka pag nakasagasa ka. Ayokong makapatay ka ng bata.”

     “I’m okay, Captain, thanks for the reminder. Hindi na po mauulit ‘to,” Fidel says, jokingly. “Ikaw din, mag-ingat ka sa bata.”

     Robert pretends to cry, the young woman across the street smiling, waiting for Robert while watching the two of them and the small groups starting to arrive at the bar.

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