APRIL 1. Today I am shooting again. Or, rather, my co-writer and editor, who happens to be my 20-year old son Dennis, shall here write this script with me again, and my daughter, my other daughter, shall here shoot with me again, as a stand-in for my first daughter, Joanna. My other daughter, I say. Yes, she, too, is from yonder. . . . But, that’s not really true. I only mentioned her here, that other daughter, to transition to this next paragraph. For although she’s here, this other daughter, with me in my heart and mind, she cannot be here in the same way that Joanna is now here, in the flesh, with us. Let me explain:
But, first, let me say that today I have decided to cease being invisible. Dismissing omniscience, I shall only write now what I’ve learned from Fidel himself, and this is regarding what else happened starting April 1, today, which I shall narrate in a little while.
You can say now, therefore, that the writing that would be appearing here henceforward could be Fidel’s. Now, of course this statement of mine would not really matter to some because, indeed, in the final analysis, the prose that has been appearing here—that you have been reading—has really been my son Dennis’. Neither I nor Fidel knows how to write, put that in all your heads. What I meant by what I said above, that the camera-view that you’ll be imagining from here shall be recognized as my son Dennis’, is due to the fact that Dennis has been the creative writing major’s voice behind all this prose, never mind that he still has to graduate after another year within which he may finally try and finish his remaining course units. And, true, it was also Dennis who suggested I write from the perspective of a spy, invisible to the public without being dead, moving like a hidden camera in spaces and places no ordinary human would dare propose is possible unless they were already a ghost (since to own the superpower of invisibility could hardly be deemed as of an ordinary human, could it?). And I thought the suggestion to be brilliant. Filmmakers are invisible people most of the time, after all, aren’t they? And, true, it was also Dennis who proposed that the hidden camera in the script could be both real—my physical spying—and imagined—my imaginings of what are going on beyond the spaces governed by my physical spying’s presence. Equally brilliant. I have ceased to be an auteur here, merely a co-writer of a script that has yet to be filmed, if there is even the possibility that this would get filmed. But here’s why I would tell you not to trust everything here to be Dennis’:
Dennis suggested I use Mulan, his sister, as my camera-girl. I thought that was too sentimental. And thanks to Fidel, the would-be creative director of this whole thing, who suggested later that I edit out that part, we did change all that and got to have the younger Joanna as my camera-girl in the whole narrative.
But, first, let me say that today I have decided to cease being invisible. Dismissing omniscience, I shall only write now what I’ve learned from Fidel himself, and this is regarding what else happened starting April 1, today, which I shall narrate in a little while.
You can say now, therefore, that the writing that would be appearing here henceforward could be Fidel’s. Now, of course this statement of mine would not really matter to some because, indeed, in the final analysis, the prose that has been appearing here—that you have been reading—has really been my son Dennis’. Neither I nor Fidel knows how to write, put that in all your heads. What I meant by what I said above, that the camera-view that you’ll be imagining from here shall be recognized as my son Dennis’, is due to the fact that Dennis has been the creative writing major’s voice behind all this prose, never mind that he still has to graduate after another year within which he may finally try and finish his remaining course units. And, true, it was also Dennis who suggested I write from the perspective of a spy, invisible to the public without being dead, moving like a hidden camera in spaces and places no ordinary human would dare propose is possible unless they were already a ghost (since to own the superpower of invisibility could hardly be deemed as of an ordinary human, could it?). And I thought the suggestion to be brilliant. Filmmakers are invisible people most of the time, after all, aren’t they? And, true, it was also Dennis who proposed that the hidden camera in the script could be both real—my physical spying—and imagined—my imaginings of what are going on beyond the spaces governed by my physical spying’s presence. Equally brilliant. I have ceased to be an auteur here, merely a co-writer of a script that has yet to be filmed, if there is even the possibility that this would get filmed. But here’s why I would tell you not to trust everything here to be Dennis’:
Dennis suggested I use Mulan, his sister, as my camera-girl. I thought that was too sentimental. And thanks to Fidel, the would-be creative director of this whole thing, who suggested later that I edit out that part, we did change all that and got to have the younger Joanna as my camera-girl in the whole narrative.
But even if Fidel did not intervene prior to this script-novel’s publication, I actually already suspected that I could not do that. Mulan never reached seventeen! Jesus, she never even reached seven! She died in the mountains at age 6 in the arms of her dying mother Felisa who got shot in a confrontation with a new detachment unit of the Philippine Army in Samar under the command of a certain Gen. Badong de Guzman. I mourned Mulan’s death. But with Mulan’s death I began to long for my daughter Joanna. With Mulan’s death I realized I’ve long neglected Joanna after her mother’s own death. With Mulan’s death I seemed to have made the promise that it’s about time I longed to be with Joanna now since I have no other woman in my life now but her. After I confirmed with Fidel, I told Dennis to put Joanna in as my cameragirl, not an imagined 17-year-old Mulan who after all could only hold nothing but a plastic toy camera at six, the age of her death. Dennis still insisted I call her Mulan, even if she shall appear with the face of Joanna, so he could continue to be in touch with his younger sister whom he, along with Felisa’s sister, cared for all those three years of her existence before she was also brought into hiding by her mother for another three years. Mulan should also be in this story, Dennis argued, even if only as a character in a work of semi-fiction. But, hey. The most sharp of editors could be carried away by sentimentality.
Dennis and I argued. I told him it was Joanna I trained as a teenager how to hold and use the camera. Mulan never got to that stage. It was Joanna who had gone into short filmmaking in college, I said, it’s Joanna who could . . . Dennis cried. Dennis cried out of his longing for his lost sister whom she never really knew anyway, except as a baby and toddler, irking my bit of machismo at this crying business, but which I later understood as actually more from a longing for his mother.
Now you wonder. Could Dennis be my stepson only, given that I couldn’t have been his father if I sired him only when I joined the rebels? I haven’t been with the rebels that long. But, you see, Dennis was born when I started seeing Felisa, then a young fishmonger, Bantay Dagat volunteer, and activist (she protested my filming in a certain mangrove, but I later gave her activist group assurances). Joanna was five when Dennis was born, and when she was already about to graduate in high school, she learned of my long “affair” with Felisa, and even though her mother was already gone by that time (in fact her mother died from an aneurysm when Joanna was 4) she still took this as an affront to her mother’s memory and ran away to her aunt in Manila and continued her studies under her aunt’s guardianship. At first she didn’t know I kept sending money to her aunt for her monthly college tuition and what-not, but after a year she found out about it and then started writing to me. I never had the chance to visit her at her aunt’s because most of my last films I shot in the Visayas, more precisely in Samar Island . But she would spend her next summers in Leyte, which was the time I taught her filmmaking from my own extra-academic experience. Joanna was already 17 when I first saw her again. My films at this time were also becoming more and more political and the Right started to set their sights on me, or so Felisa told me. Then, just before Joanna turned 19, Felisa and I joined the Communist Party.
But Joanna never knew about my children with Felisa, about Dennis being born when she was about to graduate from kindergarten. As I said, she found out about my on-off relationship with Felisa when she was already about to graduate from high school. After which she ran away from home, hating me.
Now, it was only yesterday, last night after her birthday party to be specific, that we got to talk in their backyard garden from midnight till dawn about everything that she needed to know. We talked over tuba. I told her everything. That her half-brother Dennis is still in college, unable to graduate at 20 due to missed units, not including the ROTC units he also missed since these had been rendered moot in 2002 (the year the ROTC was finally abolished). I also told her about Mulan, who died at six in the mountains, and how her loss led me back to her—Joanna. I told her about a novel I’m writing. Told her about my travels, my secret visits to this, their house in Soria, and to Dennis’s boarding house in Manila
@ @ @
Still April 1. Fidel arrives at the U.P. at Tacloban campus, parking his car and then getting off it to hurry to a class. The painter Jesse is the instructor in the classroom. The students include college and senior high school students.
“Students,” Jesse says, “ngayon po, sa unang araw pa lang ng ating summer painting workshop, gusto ko pong ipakilala ang marahil kilala nyo na, ang pinakasikat ngayon sa larangan ng painting na galing sa ating region, si Mr. Fidel Roxas.”
The students applaud.
Soon Fidel is on the blackboard, lecturing:
“So, alam niyo bang meron actually tatlong stages sa pag-kumpleto ng isang oil painting? Una, naroon ang preparation of the canvas stage, gamit ang latex paint o ang mas mahal na gesso, prepared finally with sandpaper rubbed on the dry latex or gesso ground, kung gusto niyo makinis ang canvas. to be smooth. Tapos, naroon na ang painting proper, using oil paint. Then, finally, at last, pagkatapos ng isang taon kung kelan tuyong-tuyo na ang painting, puwede nang i-apply ang . . . varnish, although me mga ayaw gumamit nito dahil baka raw manilaw. So, anyway, ano ang ibig sabihin ng mga stages na ito? Anybody?”
Jesse is smiling.
@ @ @
“VARNISH.” This is the new chalk graffiti text written on the metal plate on the lower part of the Roxases’ iron gate in Soria, Samar. It’s March 1, two years later.
Fidel is in his now-poorly maintained studio—a few cobwebs are on the ceiling and walls. He is with more of his new, happy, orange portraits. He now has a beard and mustache and looks thinner. He begins to smash the paintings on the table and the wall and throws one out the window beside the door to the balcony.
Joanna appears at the door to the studio, stops there, and goes to Fidel to try to hug him. He lets her comfort him. Her looks haven’t changed.
Suddenly, Fidel sadly leans his head on Joanna’s shoulder and then whispers, “Sorry. I’m sorry,” to which Joanna says “shhh” and wipes a tear below one of her eyes and then kisses Fidel on the forehead.
“Fidel,” says Joanna now, “Fidel, makinig ka sa ‘kin. . . . Fidel, halos isang taon ka na sa ginagawa mong ‘yan, di ba? Meron tayong natutunan. Di ba?”
Fidel goes to a window.
“Fidel,” says Joanna, tears welling up again in her eyes, careful with what she wants to say, choosing her words, “kailangan mo na kayang bitawan yan? . . . Wala kang masyadong naibenta sa mga gawa mong yan, at hindi ka rin naman naging masaya riyan e, di ba? Kailangan mo na bang iwanan yan, Fidel? For your sake? . . . Please, Fidel, maghanap ka na lang ng ibang gagawin, naaawa na ako sa ‘yo e.”
The camera stays on her silently crying face as she says this last clause. Fidel slowly goes to her to caress her hair and hug her.
After a pause he whispers, “Okay. Okay, Joanna. Okay.”
She looks at him and then cries on his chest.
Later she looks up at him and asks, “Ano ba’ng nangyari sa atin? Bakit nangyari ‘to?”
@ @ @
March 2, 2009. Federico’s car arrives at the Roxases’ gate. When he enters the gate he sees two old cars, an old silver Toyota Corolla and an older red one behind it. He climbs up the front stairs of the now ill-maintained house, noticing some plants on the porch needing water. Joanna runs out of the kitchen in her apron. Federico has a thick envelope in one hand and a wrapped gift in the other.
“Kuya! Na-receive ko ang text message mo halos ngayon lang, sorry. Tsaka, pasensiya ka na, naghuhugas ako ng plato e, di pa ako naliligo,” she says.
“Oh,” he says.
“Wala na kasi si Sienna.” Joanne is not as happy-looking as she used to be, but still classy as ever, Federico thinks, even in her dirty and wet apron. He is proud of her, proud of Fidel having married her.
“Ganun ba?” he says, a bit puzzled. “You look great, okay? Don’t worry about me,” he says after a puzzled silence, unsure if this was the right thing to say. “Si Fidel?”
“Nasa studio niya. Uhm, puntahan mo na lang, uhm, . . . kuya.”
“I’m sorry about what happened, Joanna. . . . Me pera ka pa ba? Heto ang envelope, tanggapin mo, pero huwag mong ipapakita ang lahat ng nariyan ke Fidel. At huwag na huwag mong irerefuse ang tulong ko; kapatid ko ang asawa mo. Okay?”
She doesn’t answer, but takes the envelope.
“Pasensiya ka na ha. Kararating ko lang sa Maynila nung isang araw. Halos anim na buwan ako sa Thailand
Momentarily, Joanna looks at a cobweb at a corner of their ceiling.
Momentarily, Joanna looks at a cobweb at a corner of their ceiling.
“Uhm, kumain ka na ba?”
“Oh, yes, nag-McDonald’s lang ako sa Tacloban. Nga pala, ang extra na pera riyan, katatanggap ko lang niyan, galing sa isang kliyente ko rito ‘yan, kaya maliit lang yan.”
“Salamat, kuya.”
“Ba’t dalawa ang kotse sa driveway?”
“Yung pula sa Papa. Pero nasa Maynila siya ngayon.”
“Oh, yes. Kumusta naman ang Papa mo?”
She smiles. “Ayun. Sunod-sunod nga ang shooting mula nang ma-release siya sa kulungan nung December.”
“A, talaga? Galing! At good for you! All’s well that ends well, then.” He is smiling, though Joanna’s smile is not so happy. “So, ano’ng ginagawa ni Fidel sa studio, me trabaho ba?”
“Natutulog lang, kuya,” says Joanna, her head down, a bit nervous.
“Ganun ba? Anyway, yung gusto kong sabihin sa ‘yo, ang kalahati ng perang iyan ay ang halagang tinext sa akin ni Fidel na gusto niyang utangin. Ang kalahati naman ay itabi mo para sa iyo, huwag mong sabihin sa kanya. Nagtaka nga ako kung bakit siya mangungutang ng ganun kaliit. Ano ba talaga’ng nangyari rito? Uhmm, nga pala, si Pablo? Eto nga pala ang gift ko sa kanya na di ko naipadala nung Pasko.”
Joanna, her head still down, doesn’t take the present and starts shaking. Federico is stunned. Joanna’s tears fall on the floor. Then, weakened by Federico’s reminder, she slowly falls down on her knees, begins to silently sob, trembling with painful, silent sobbing.
Federico is still stunned, sitting down on a one-seater chair of the living room suite beside Joanna. He lightly puts a hand on Joanna’s shoulder.
Joanna looks at her brother-in-law. “Si Pablo . . . ,” she couldn’t finish her sentence, whimpers and sniffles, and then trembles once more. Federico frowns. “Anim na buwan na, kuya. Nung umalis ka for Thailand
Federico is confused.
“What do you mean? Wala kayong namemention tungkol sa kanya sa mga email niyo a.”
“Pasensiya ka na, kuya, ayaw ka naming maabala sa trabaho mo e, kuya.”
Federico is still confused.
Joanna has already calmed herself from crying and is already drying her face with her apron, sitting now on the couch. Joanna tells Federico, sniffling every now and then, sometimes almost sobbing again, “Na-dengue si Pablo, kuya. . . . Hindi namin agad nadala sa ospital, nagtitipid kasi kami. (she cries, then stops) Akala ko simpleng lagnat lang. stupid me. (she cries again) Malala na nung dalhin namin.” She dries her face, cries again, then stops, looking at her apron. She glances at Pablo’s picture on the living room set’s side table.
Federico is so confused, shaking his head in disbelief, pale-faced now, looking at the coffee table. He stands, retreats from Joanna, and exclaims, “Pablo. Oh my God. Oh my God!” and begins to silently sob too. “Oh my God!” he repeats, covering his mouth. “How, why?” he says, to no one. “Ang inaanak ko! Oh my God! Ano ba’ng nangyayari rito?!”
After Federico has calmed down, sitting now again, he says sadly, painfully, almost in protest, “Bakit di niyo ako tinawagan?”
Joanna just looks at him, and starts to silently sob again. Federico hugs her, but her sobs get stronger, ending with a loud cry.
@ @ @
Federico enters the studio and sees Fidel awake now, in the studio balcony, sitting smoking, looking out at the garden.
Rico slowly walks toward Fidel, who looks at him then.
“Narinig ko ang kotse mo, kuya. . . . At ang usapan niyo ni Wana. . . . Welcome back.” Fidel extends his hand to his brother, who is now standing beside him.
“I’m so sorry, Fidel,” Federico says, hugging his brother tightly.
Fidel’s eyes get wet. He doesn’t know what to say.
After seconds of silence, Rico says, “. . . Ako ang pumatay sa anak mo.”
“Kuya,” Fidel says, turning to his brother in protest, “what are you talking about? Na-dengue si Pablo.”
“Winasak ko ang buhay mo, at namatay ang anak mo, dahil lang gusto ko maging maligaya ka sa painting mo, Fidel. Ako ang humimok sa iyo na palitan mo ang art mo. . . . Pinatay ko ang inaanak ko!”
“Kuya. Kuya!” says Fidel as he stands up, holding one of his brother’s arms holding the balcony rail, “wala kang kasalanan, kuya! Ako, ako ang may pagkukulang . . . sa lahat. Sa pamilya ko. Dahil sa mga walang saysay na mga pinaggagawa ko sa simula pa lang! Dapat nilinis ko ang garden, pinalinis ko ke Sienna nang regular, dapat tinulungan ko sila sa kanilang paglilinis sa araw-araw! Masyado akong busy sa aking sarili, sa sarili ko lang.”
The brothers are silent again, one looking at the balcony floor, the other at the now-overgrown garden, both frowning.
“I’m sorry, Fidel. . . . I’m sorry napatay ko ang inaanak ko.”
“Kuya. Kuya! Kuya, minulat mo lang ako, kuya, ano ba ang pinagsasasabi mo? . . . Minulat mo ako. . . . Minulat mo ako sa mga bagay na totoo. At sa matagal ko nang gustong gawin. Ano ang kinalaman niyan sa pagkamatay ni Pablo? Sa dengue, kuya? Sa dengue fever?!”
Fidel retreats from Federico to a corner of the balcony and wipes his tears.
“Kung tinuloy ko yung dati kong ginagawa, kuya,” he says, facing the garden, “ganun din ang mangyayari, kung magsawa na ang tao sa mga gawa ko. Kung wala nang bumibili. At lalala ang sitwasyon dahil totoo ang sabi mo, hindi ko ipaglalaban, dahil hindi ko na art yun, sa kanila na lang yun.”
Federico also wipes his face.
“Kaya, kuya,” Fidel says, facing Federico, “kelangan ko pa rin makita ang . . . ang totoo kong pulitika, as you put it, ano man yun. Nasaan man yun. . . . Okey?”
Federico shakes his head, looking at Fidel, saying, “Jesus, Fidel,” and and hugs his brother again.
Federico then retreats from his brother and looks toward the garden. Then he turns toward Fidel, still sad-faced.
They are both standing there now, silent, both looking at the floor. Federico then looks out at the garden again and at the pond in the garden. Fidel looks sadly at a wall in his studio. Federico then puts his right hand on top of his head.
“That’s it. Alam ko na kung ano ang dapat nating gawin ngayon, Fidel,” Federico says, turning to Fidel, holding Fidel’s arm. “Puwede ka bang sumama sa akin? Please? May ipapakita lang ako sa iyo, sa bahay natin sa Tacloban. Kelan ka huli nagpunta sa bahay natin sa Tacloban?”
Fidel shakes his head.
“No, kuya. Dito lang ako, kuya, walang kasama si Joanna.”
“Kelangan mong makita yon, Fidel. Isama natin si Joanna. Please, Fidel? . . . Kung namatay man si Pablo dahil sa bigla niyong paghihirap at . . . pagkakamali, kung maituturing mang pagkakamali niyo iyon, . . . at least hayaan mong maipakita ko sa iyo kung ano sa palagay ko ang dapat mong makita ngayong araw. Para ‘to sa mga araw na darating, Fidel. . . . Ito’y para . . . para hindi ko masabing namatay ang inaanak ko for nothing. Dahil hindi ako papayag na hindi mo makita ang gusto kong makita mo since last year pa, bago ako biglang umalis patungong Thailand. . . . Ginawa ko yun para sa akin at sa iyo, alam mo ba? Para rin ke Joanna at Pablo, at . . . at sa magiging susunod niyong anak.”
Fidel trembles and sobs again and then lets out a scream. Federico closes his eyes as Joanna appears at the doorway with Federico’s wrapped gift. Federico gives up and drops on a seat.
“Dapat nakita ko na iyon noon,” Federico says to Fidel and Joanna. “Ako ang architect.”
“Dapat nakita ko na iyon noon,” Federico says to Fidel and Joanna. “Ako ang architect.”
