Fidel's March: A Screenplay of a Novel (Chapter 14)

THEY ARE in a newly-restored, renovated house—in a beach-side village at the edge of Tacloban—done Federico Roxas-style, which means simple restorations sprinkled with a few modernist renovations of parts that have through time proven themselves to be impractical or illogical parts of the old structure. The final product would look absolutely postmodern, but only with subtle humor.
     After the male caretaker opens the front door to that part of the house above the coffeehouse renting the lower part of it, Federico tells Joanna, “Joanna, excuse me muna ha, me ipapakita lang ako ke Fidel dito sa taas. Tapos ikaw naman. Magkape ka muna riyan, okay?”

     So Joanna goes inside a receiving area, a room adjoining the renting coffeeshop’s main area. But instead of going inside the coffeehouse, Joanna sits on an old 1950s sofa in this waiting area, while Federico leads his still sulky brother by the elbow upstairs.

     Once upstairs, Fidel whispers a quiet “wow,” surprised and awed by what he sees. “Super-ganda nito kuya, a. Parang bahay mayaman na ‘to a,” he says, adding, “hindi ito ang bahay na kinalakihan ko.” He is now laughing a bit at last.

     “Wala akong binago halos, Fidel, in terms of the design, pinalitan ko lang o ni-revitalize ang ilang lumang kamoy. Siguro sa me kailangan idagdag, mga art deco na ilaw dito, mga polyurethane varnishing do’n. Tulad halos nung ginawa ko sa bahay mo two years ago, remember?—wala akong binago sa old parts, ni-restore ko lang ang lumang disenyo. Tinaasan ang bubong, yun lang ang renovation dito. Me konting renovation din sa baba, oo, pero mostly restoration pa rin. Hindi ko puwedeng baguhin nang todo kasi dito tayo lumaki e, di ba? Lahat ng lumang bahay sa Pilipinas me mga tulad natin na lumaki roon, at sa tingin ko lahat ay ayaw na may nakikita silang nabago nang todo kahit sa kanilang mga renovated na bahay. Ganun din ako. Ayokong makalimutan natin ang buhay natin noon, ang lahat ng magaganda at pangit na alaala, I’m sure you can sympathize.” He raises a finger and points to the main object of Fidel’s gaze. “Itong parte ng bahay, ito lang ang may binago ako nang todo rito.”

     Federico goes to a large curtain, with what looks like sunlight behind it, and pulls it down to reveal a newly-polished closed faux-capiz-shell-paned large window that looks more like a large door. As it turns out, it is a door.

     “Yung mga muntins nito, ka-va-varnish lang namin kahapon nang hapon, pagkarating ko.”

     Fidel is amazed, momentarily forgetting himself.

     “Walang bintana rito dati, kuya,” he says, beaming with a smile.

     “Nabubulok na kasi ang kahoy sa dingding dito, Fidel, nauulanan na kasi nang ilang dekada, naaalala mo? Buti nga hindi inanay e. Papalitan ko lang sana ng bagong dingding, e. Pero nung inalis ko ang dingding bago ako umalis for Thailand, . . . nakita ko itong view. Sorry nga pala hindi na ako nakapunta sa inyo no’n para magpaalam.”

     Federico opens the window-door to a beautiful terrace stretching beyond the house’s eaves. It had wrought-iron railings, and the terrace overlooked a Tacloban seaside slum.

     “So, yun, dinagdag ko na ‘tong terrace,” Federico goes on, with Fidel speechless toward everything he is seeing for the first time. “Ginawa ng contractor habang wala ako rito, pero pinadadalhan niya ako ng photos ng progress.”

     “Ang ganda, kuya,” says Fidel, in a whisper again, ceaselessly open-mouthed.

     “Maupo tayo rito, Fidel,” says Federico, dragging two antique wrought-iron-backed chairs to the center of the room so they could sit looking at this window-door and the open terrace behind it and the Tacloban slum beyond.

     “Nung inalis ko ang dingding, ito ang view na nakita ko. So, . . . what am I saying? Well, . . . narito sa maganda at pangit sa view na ‘to ang aking pulitika, Fidel.”

     Fidel looks at him, but soon smiles, shaking his head once, still quite awed, though confused by his brother’s point.

     “Mukhang ang mahal ng terrace, di ba?” says Federico. “Alam mo, sa pulitika ng ibang arkitekto, ipasasara ‘to, para di makita ang bahay ng mga mahihirap sa slum na ‘yan at para di makita ang nakaka-depress daw na sunset na iyan. Pero hindi ako ganun. Sa slum na ‘to nakatira ang mga kalaro natin noon na minsan ay binibisita natin, hanggang ngayon, di ba? Gusto ba natin silang kalimutan? Sabihin mo na na puno ako ng cliché, pero yun din ang dapat tinatanong ng lahat ng bahay Pilipino, di ba? Narito, Fidel. Narito sa dating dingding na ito, sa ating silid-laruan at tulugan noon, . . .  narito ang pulitika ng bahay na ‘to ngayon, Fidel. Sabi ng ibang arkitekto, ang buhay daw ng bahay . . . ay nasa hitsura nito sa labas at hitsura nito sa loob. Ang sasabihin ko sa kanila ay ito: ang buhay ng bahay ay nasa mga bintana nito. Saan nilagay ang mga ito, saan hindi? Aling mga bintana ang nakabukas, alin ang parating tinatabunan ng kurtina? Fidel, ano ang bahay kung walang bintana? Ano ang buhay kung walang pulitikang nanggagaling sa kaalaman mo tungkol sa kung aling mga bintana ng iyong pag-iisip ang nakabukas, at alin ang nakasara? Ang bintana ang pulitika ng bahay, di ba? Yun ang sasabihin ko sa kanila. . . . May isang bahay akong alam na may pulitikang ayaw makialam sa nangyayari sa labas. Actually, maraming bahay ang ganun, kahit mga bahay-mahirap. Minsan nga pag nasa mga ganung bahay ako, naaalala ko ang mga painting galleries, na karamihan ay sarado, halos walang mga bintana, at lahat ng paintings ay iniilawan lamang ng mga exaggerated na ilaw. . . .”

     Fidel is speechless with a smile, still a bit of a sad smile but a smile nonetheless, very, very quiet and not interested in replying. And puzzled still by his brother’s words in his usual lecturer’s language.

     “Anyway, . . . actually, . . . actually dinala kita rito para ma-divert ang atensyon mo sa ibang mga bagay. Pero . . . ano man ang gagawin mo sa art mo from this point on, Fidel,” says Federico, “pakialay sa inaanak ko. . . . Ke Pablo Picasso Apostol Roxas.”

     Federico shakes his head once, tears welling a bit in his eyes again, but he quickly wipes his nose, musing at a picture on the wall, then says, “Alam mo, Fidel, ako wala pang asawa, wala pang anak. Pag ako nagkaanak, bro, yun din ang ipapangalan ko sa kanya kung lalaki. Pablo. Dahil . . . dahil nagsisisi ako sa mga pinayo ko sa iyo noon, Fidel.”

     Federico wipes his eyes with a handkerchief.

     Fidel protests, saying, “No, no, no, kuya, . . . ano ka ba?” He stands up. “Wala kang kasalanan, kuya. Sabi mo nga, ialay natin ang mga gagawin natin mula ngayon ke Pablo. At alam mo? Alam mo, tama ka. Dahil sa tingin ko, at ngayon ko lang naisip ito ha, . . . baka nga namatay si Pablo para sa art ko. (He pauses, cries again) Para bang . . . dahil may kailangan akong makita. at kailangan pang mamatay siya para makita ko yun. Namatay siya para sa akin, kuya. Hindi para sa iyo, o sa bayan, o sa Diyos, kundi para sa akin, kuya, sa akin! Pinatay siya ng Diyos para mapansin ko siya. . . . Dahil ang alaala niya ang magdadala sa akin sa mga bagay na kailangan kong makita, na hindi ko nakita noon.”

     Fidel sits, exhausted. He adds, whispering, “ako, kasama ng isang lamok na may dengue, ang pumatay sa kanya.” He sniffles.

     “Pero, Fidel, look,” says Federico, “hanggang ngayon ay may paniniwala pa rin naman ako sa isang bahagi ng pulitika ko, Fidel. Ngunit nagkamali ako sa area ng praktikalidad nito. At pinasa ko ang pagkakamaling ito sa ‘yo. So, baka pareho nga lang tayo, parehong dapat sisihin. . . . So, anyway, . . . narito tayo ngayon, at ano itong pinapakita ko sa iyo rito, at bakit kita dinala rito ngayon, maliban sa hangad kong i-distract kita pansamantala sa pagluluksa mo? Ito! Ito ang pulitika ko na di ko kinahihiya at di ko pinagsisisihan! . . . At ang payo ko sa iyo, . . . ikaw rin, Fidel. Ikaw rin sana ay dapat may pulitika sa art mo na tulad ng sa akin, mayabang man ito pakinggan! Ang ibig kong sabihin, pulitika na hindi nakapako sa nakaraan o sa teksto ng mga utopia kundi pulitika na ang-e-evolve, ikanga. So, okay. Ano ang nangyari? . . . Oo, inisip ko, bakit ba tayo nag-e-aircon sa mga bahay natin gayung masarap ang hangin sa probinsiya, kahit ba paminsan-minsan ay nahahaluan na ito ng amoy ng mga diesel fumes mula sa mga jeepney at gasoline fumes mula mga tricycle na dumadaan, o ng amoy ng tae ng aso na di maisipang disiplinahin ng ating mga lokal na pamahalaan? Naging makaluma ako masyado, naging konserbatibong uri ng postmodernist kuno (he scoffs), maka-masa o maka-tao o maka-bansa ang hangarin ngunit hindi naisip ang mga detalye ng pagbabago ng panahon. Naisip ko lang ang abstraktong pagbabago. Ang pagbabago na dala ng modernism, ang rebolusyon na dala ng postmodernism. Pero ang mga detalye! . . . hindi na nga ako nanonood ng news e, pa’no ko ba maiisip ang significant increase ng dengue outbreaks nitong 2000s na ngayon ko lang nalaman mula sa iyo on our way here? . . . Hindi ko naisip ang laganap nang mga lamok na may dengue, Fidel. Ako, Fidel! Ako! Isang tanyag na arkitekto na kung saan-saang conference nagpupunta, alagad daw ng sining, ako ang pumatay sa sarili kong . . . sa sarili kong pamangkin at inaanak, dahil ang pulitika ng art ko ay naging mali! At pinasa ko kamaliang ito sa pamamagitan ng mapilit kong mga payo! . . . Para akong makamasang nobelista na . . . na nagbebenta ng mga libro ko sa bookstores ng middle class! Gaya ng sabi ko kanina, ang pulitika ng isang bahay ay nasa mga bintana nito, di ba? Ngunit ang pulitika ng isang bintana . . . ang pulitika ng isang bintanang walang screen ay ano? Isa siyang estupidong pulitika!!!”

     Federico sits, looking out the window with sad eyebrows. Fidel, realizing how deeply his brother has now also blamed himself for Pablo’s death, feels he ought to respect his brother’s thoughts for now. He looks at his elder brother but remains silent, then says, softly:

     “Kuya, hindi ikaw ang pumatay ke Pablo. . . . Kuya, pinatay siya ng lamok na hindi natin napansin. Lahat tayo na di nakapansin sa mga nangyayari sa palibot natin ay katulad din lang ng mga lamok na di rin naman alam ang nagagawang lagim ng kanilang kagutuman at pagkauhaw. Hindi rin kasalanan ng mga lamok, di ba? Dahil lamok sila, kelangan nilang kumain o uminom ng dugo ng kanilang mga kapitbahay na hayop. At hindi rin kasalanan ng tao o ng mga artists na tulad natin na, sabi mo nga, naging mabagal ang mga mata sa ebolusyon ng mga bagay na nasa labas ng studio, sa mga puno man ito o sa kanilang mga kapitbahay nangyayari. . . . Pero, sa takbo ng panahon, . . . nararating din naman natin ang kaliwanagan. Mabagal, oo, dahil mabagal ang ebolusyon, kuya. Mga tao lang din tayo na hindi nakikita ang lahat nang agad-agad. Minsan, kailangan may mangyari para tayo ay maalimpungatan mula sa ating mga pagkahimbing. . . . Hindi ko ito sinasabi para sumbatan kita, o sumbatan ang sarili ko o sinuman. . . . Sinasabi ko ito dahil sa mga naging maliwanag sa akin ngayon, salamat sa mga sinabi mo ngayon, kuya. . . . Mabuti at . . . mabuti’t . . . mabuti pa tawagin na natin si Joanna, para makita niya itong ginawa mo rito. Salamat dito, kuya.”

     But Joanna was already there by the stairs’ uppermost steps. She had been on the stairway all this time, listening to the brothers. And now the three are standing in front of that, Federico’s new window-door, Fidel and Joanna admiring Rico’s achievement in that part of the house, framing like a painting a moving slum under a noon sun.

@ @ @

Some neighbors are eating banana cue in front of the banana-cue stall across the Roxases’ house, buzzing with rumors, like mosquitoes hungry for blood news. The Roxas’ new Toyota Corolla car arrives. It’s not really a new Toyota Corolla, more of a new-looking second-hand one. But it’s the Roxases’ car now, replacing their Ford SUV Fidel sold to Atty. Sevilla.

     “‘Yan,” says one of the banana cue eaters, “nakarma. Sandali lang, nakarma agad. Mayabang kasi.”

     “Ano ba’ng pinagsasasabi niyong mayabang, kayo talaga? Kelan ba nagyabang sa inyo ‘yan? Di na kayo naawa, a, wala namang ginagawa sa inyo yung tao, a,” says the banana-cue vendor. “Namatayan na nga, . . . lahat dinadaan niyo sa inggit! Pag ‘di na kayo naiinggit, natutuwa kayo, sasabihin niyo nakarma?”

     “E, nakakainis e, mayabang e.”

     “Ano ba’ng mayabang, hindi ba ikaw ang mayabang?” says the banana-cue cook. “Lahat ng taong dumadaan dito, akala mo nagyayabang sa ‘yo. Sino ka ba para pagyabangan ka nila?”

     “Aba, aba, aba, aba. Yabang mo rin a, di na ako bibili ng banana cue mo e.”

     The other guys around the stall laugh. The banana-cue vendor, grinning, goes silent.

@ @ @

Inside the house, Joanna is talking to her father on the phone.

     “Pa, kumusta kayo riyan? . . . Aba, nagsimula na ang shooting niyo, ang galing naman. . . . Ako? Haha, saka ko na lang ho itutuloy ang sa akin, Pa, naubusan ho ako ng film e. Mga digital scenes na lang muna ang isu-shoot ko. Pero baka next week na, may mga inaasikaso pa ako e. . . . Hay, naku naman, Pa, malaki ho kasi ang nagastos ko sa ospital, Pa, e, tsaka sa cremation at funeral ni Pablo. . . . A, okay. . . . Okay, sige po. I miss you rin po. . . . Ho? . . . Ha, talaga?! . . . O, so, dito sa Leyte?! Wow! . . . Bukas?! Ay, naku, Pa, . . . e, hindi pa ako nakakapaglinis ng bahay! . . . O sige, sige, kita na lang tayo, then. Bye, Pa. Have a nice flight. I love you, too. Bye.”

@ @ @

Vicente is sitting in the Roxases’ living room with a couple of bags and a large box in front of him. Fidel is also in the living room.

     “At ang big surprise ko sa iyo, eto,” Vicente is saying as he reaches for something from a one-square-foot carton.

     He brings out a box for a new hard disk.

     “‘Yan, sa ‘yo na ‘yan, para sa susunod mong short film. Kelangan mo ng dagdag na hard disk, baka di makaya ng computer mo ngayon ang load.”

     Joanna is almost teary-eyed again, but this time from joy.

     “Ingatan mo yan, ha? Lahat ng sinuweldo ko sa studio diyan lang napunta.”

     They laugh, knowing he’s kidding.

     Fidel is happy for Joanna too and joins in the laughter.

     “Alam mo ba, sabi ko sa producer, sa susunod kong pelikula, ang co-director ko ay ikaw.”

     “Ha?! Naloloko ka na ba?” Joanna says, but is ecstatic.

     “Okay ba sa iyo yun, Fidel?” Vicente asks Fidel.

     “Aba, okey na okey.”

     Vicente laughs. But his smiling face suddenly turns sad.

     “Nga pala, ngayon lang ako binigyan ng break ng mga producer ko at ng military at police. Meaning, since ngayon lang uli ako nakabalik dito, . . .maaari bang patingin ng tomb ni Pablo?” he says.

     Joanna looks at her father. Fidel, likewise. Then together they walk to the hall’s backdoor to the back porch leading to the garden.

@ @ @

Vicente goes near Pablo’s little tomb by the pond in the Roxases’ backyard garden. Inside a glass box upon a rock in the middle of the pond, Pablo’s urn is surrounded by the boy’s toy cars. Vicente goes into the pond and kisses the glass box.

@ @ @

March 3, the next year, 2010. There’s a phone call from Ms. Lanuza. Joanna calls Fidel. Vicente is having breakfast.

     Fidel comes running to the phone and turns on the phone’s speaker so Joanna could hear whatever it is Ms. Lanuza has to tell him, good news or bad.

     At the other end of the line Ms. Lanuza says, “Fidel, gusto ko i-reexhibit ang orange painting series mo, . . . pero gusto ko, isang bagong collection ng orange paintings. Same thesis, as you would call it, pero new collection/ Okay? Tapos, yung older orange series mo na wala akong na pre-sell at post-sell (she sighs), isasama ko sa exhibit, sa isang alcove ko rito ididisplay. So, parang early retrospective mo ito, ano. Naisip ko kasi, magandang selling point ang maipakita ang resilience mo, ano, anak, at yang dedication mo sa thesis mong ito. Di ba? Makikita ng buyers na hindi ka natinag ng kawalan ng market dito sa bago mong direction! If we show that, I think many collectors will jump on this as a bandwagon for you. . . . Actually, it’s because sabi ng isa kong kliyente, gusto daw nya yung bago mong kulay pero kung aalisin mo raw ang saya for this color, bibilhin daw niya in advance ang lima, at least. Gusto daw niya kasi yung luma mong malulungkot na paintings, yung may melancholia, di ba? So, yun. Gusto raw niya ng orange series, pero yung may melancholia pa rin. Bibilhin pa raw niya ang maraming ganito para sa sunset-side café ng hotel niya sa Bacolod. Di ba? How much more clichéd can you get, hahaha? Pero, I would like to know what you think.”

     Fidel sighs.

     Then he says, “Ma’am, Ms. Lanuza, . . . can I call you back?”
     It did not take long for Fidel to think about the idea. He calls Ms. Lanuza back, saying, “ma’am, ipagpaumanhin nyo po, pero mag-bi-break po muna uli ako. Siguro bigyan niyo lang po ako ng mga isa, dalawang buwan pa bago kita masagot.”

     “Aba, sure, hijo. Pero, alalahanin mo lang sana na maraming artist ang kumakatok sa dealership ko at ayaw ko naman na masapawan ka ng mga bagong pangalan. Sabi nga, out of sight, out of mind. Baka makalimutan ka ng mga kolektor kung matagal kang mawala, ano, marami kasing batang nagsusulputan ngayon. Kung wala akong kikitain from you mapipilitan akong kumuha ng somebody else to earn from, di ba? E, pa’no ‘pag nagustuhan sila ng mga fans mo at iwan ka na nila? I’m just worried for you, anak, you know that naman.”

     “Of course, ma’am. Di bale po kung maraming aayaw na sa akin, call ko po yun. At maraming salamat po sa mga naitulong niyo sa akin, Ms. Lanuza, ma’am.”

     After a bit of silence, Ms. Lanuza says, “Naku, Fidel, don’t thank me. At huwag ka ngang magsalita nang ganyan, para ka namang nagpapaalam niyan, mag-aabroad ka ba? Marami pa tayong pag-uusapan, at ipaglalaban pa rin kita, okay?” she says, nervously laughing.

     Fidel laughs back.

     “Opo, sige ho. Thank you po. . . . Sige po, ma’am, ba-bye.”

@ @ @

On the other end, Ms. Lanuza is surprised at Fidel’s seeming indifference; not angry, but puzzled.

     “Ilang buwan? Ilang buwan, Fidel?” she says to herself.

     “Ms. Lanuza, ito po yung mga bagong booking proposals,” a girl says, handing her what looks like a list.

@ @ @

Fidel’s new old car is coming out of his house’s gate. The car soon disappears like a ghost, fades like a ghost, while turning a corner.

@ @ @

While on the road, Fidel sees his father-in-law’s red old car coming. He slows down and the old car slows down, too. Fidel lowers his driver’s-seat window and the driver of the old car does the same.

     The old car’s driver, Vicente, says, “May lakad ka yata.”

     “Opo, Pa, maniningil lang. Nandun po si Joanna sa bahay.”

     “O, sige, may groceries ako for you with me. Sige!”

     “Uy, Pa, nag-abala pa po kayo. Pero sige po, Pa, thank you po, see you po mamaya.”
     They smile and nod at each other and their cars go their opposite ways.

@ @ @

Seconds later Vicente’s old car arrives at the Roxases’ street, stopping near the Roxases’ house. Vicente is about to get out of the car to open the gate to the house and drive the car into the house's driveway when he sees an imitation Willys MB jeep with its top up parked across the house beside the closed banana-cue stall. You would say the banana-cue stall, though still open at its sides, is closed when a plastic curtain is covering its front and no cooking is going on. No men are on the jeep, but Vicente swiftly gets out of his car and runs toward his daughter’s house. As he nears the gate, five men coming from behind the banana cue stall take out guns from under their jackets or from bags and start gunning Vicente down. They then get away on their fake Willys MB.

     Joanna, who has heard the gunshots and later sees her father’s car from the porch, now runs down the house’s front porch and out the gate, screaming toward her father now lying on the ground in front of the gate. She cries and shouts, “no, no, no! Pa! No, Pa!” . . . kneeling over her father’s bloodied body as it slowly dies. She starts pumping her father’s chest and does not stop until she is exhausted, seeing blood pumped out of his father’s mouth. She is crying. Several people promptly gather around Joanna and the dead body of her father, telling each other what just happened.

@ @ @

March 4. At Vicente’s wake at the Roxas house, there are artists and visitors from Manila. The movie production studio’s lawyer is talking to Joanna. Dennis, who’s now 23 and a fresh graduate, is in the living room, sitting near Vicente’s coffin. Above the coffin, Pablo’s urn is now on a shelf, removed from his backyard tomb.

     “Gusto sanang magpa-vigil ng movie studio para sa Papa mo sa Manila Cathedral, Joan.”

     “Hindi na po, Attorney, ayoko. Alam ko aayaw ang Papa ng ganun kung matatanong natin siya. You see, . . . kahit punong-puno siya ng pulitika, Attorney, alam mo, . . . ayaw niyang pinopoliticize ang buhay niya e. Natatawa nga ako minsan e. Tsaka alam mo, Attorney, pumasok ang Tatay ko sa sine, first for economic reasons. Yun lang ang alam niyang trabaho e. Later, naging for political reasons. Pero, siyempre, sa gitna nitong lahat, mayroon din siyang ibang kaligayahan na di nakikita ng iba. Ang kaligayahan niya, halimbawa, sa simpleng makita lang ako na may hawak na kamera. Little Vicente raw ako e.”

     Joanna laughs a bit while wiping tears with a kerchief, trying to control herself. They are silent for a while.

     Later, the lawyer says, “Uhm, Joanna, . . . me nakukuwento sa akin ang Papa mo, about your financial standing.”
     “Ha?” She is not so much surprised as suspicious.
     “I’m sorry,” continues the lawyer, “pero—habang nag-sho-shoot siya noon, at tuwing kinakausap kaming mga producers niya, informally of course, parati ka niyang minimention e. Iniisip niya kung paano ka niya matutulungan. I mean kayo, kayong mag-asawa. . . . So, kumusta ka naman? Kumusta kayo?”

     “Makakaraos naman siguro kami, Attorney. Baka temporary lang ang lahat nang ito.”

     “Halimbawa, Joan, ano ang balak mo sa bahay niyo sa Tacloban? Puwede akong mag-arrange for a buyer. Unless gusto mo saka na natin pag-usapan.”

     “Hindi, Attorney, okay lang. Alam mo, baka do’n na nga kami tumira e. Maraming bad memories ako sa bahay na ‘to, except of course pag nakikita ko ang tomb ni Pablo sa pond sa likod, sumasaya rin ako nang kaunti, na para bang buhay siya at naglalaro lang sa garden tuwing nakikita ko ang toys niya roon. Pero, like I said, napagdesisyunan na namin na baka mas mainam na sa Tacloban na lang kami at paupahan na lang namin itong bahay at ilipat na rin ang tomb ni Pablo sa Tacloban. Sayang kasi ang investment namin dito, both financial and emotional, kung ibebenta namin ito.” She laughs. “Tingnan mo nga naman yan. Akala ko noon na ang sarili kong bright future ay narito, sa kabila ng San Juanico, sa kabilang isla na ‘to. Yun pala, babalik din ako sa aking pinanggalingan. Sabi pa nga ng Papa,” aiming to mimic his voice and be funny, “ganun ang pulitika ng tao, hindi lang sa mga bagay na gusto niyang makamit, nasa mga bagay din na ayaw niyang mawala.” She laughs at her own imitation of her father, then looks at his coffin. “Pero kahit ang mga bagay na yun, ang mga bagay na iyon na ayaw kong mawala, . . . mga alaala na rin lamang ngayon. Ang bahay na babalikan ko, bagamat mababalikan ko na, ay mananatiling alaala din lamang, in a sense.”

     She looks at a wall.

     Fidel is now behind Joanna and has overheard what Joanna just said. It almost repeats in his ears.

     He recalls what his friend’s model Karissa said to him that night of their one-night stand, night of his cheating: “Walang lalaking marunong makuntento, wala akong kilala. Hindi ba mas makikita nila ang kanilang mga sarili sa mga bagay na nasa kanila na? Di ba? Sa mga bagay na ayaw nilang mawala? Bakit hindi yun ang alagaan nila, at doon nila hanapin ang kanilang mga sarili?”

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Fidel's March: A Screenplay of a Novel (Chapter 13)

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 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 where we’d input my novel into his computer.

@ @ @

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 e. . . . O, sorry ha, pero mukhang napapabayaan yata ng asawa mo ‘tong bahay niya.”
     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.”

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Fidel's March: A Screenplay of a Novel (Chapter 12)

FIDEL and Karissa go out into the night in his car and then on foot among the satay stalls of the small-town city. They stop at one small kiosk. She says it’s hers.
     “O,” says Fidel, “akala ko small-time ka lang. Sa ‘yo ba talaga ‘to?”
     “Dati akong small-time,” she says. “Tapos nakautang ako ng pamuhunan. Kay Jesse. May pera din ang taong ‘yon, ayaw lang pahalata. Marami yatang kontrata ‘yon, di mo ba alam?”
     She introduces Fidel to her assistant, her sister, Carol. They sit by a polypropylene table, chewing on satay, sipping Coke.
     “Alam mo, sa totoo lang, ayoko sa mga paintings nung kaibigan mong iyon, si kuya Jesse. Masyadong malayo sa mundo, e. Di ko type. Gusto ko yung totoo, ano. Kasi totoong tao ako, e. Oo! Kasi nga, hindi ako galing magic, ‘no. Tsaka masyadong religious yang si Kuya Jesse, parati namang nakatitig sa bulbol ko. Diyos ko, ewan ko ba.”
     “Ibig mong sabihin, hIndi ka niya ginalaw, ni minsan?”
     “Hindi, ano. Torpe yan si kuya, ewan ko ba, bakla yata.”
     “Akala ko ba sabi mo bakla. Ngayon sinasabi mo baka lang. Ano ba talaga?”
     “Aba, ewan ko. Sabi ko baka bakla, kasi nga pinatira na ako sa bahay niya, hanggang ngayon hindi pa ako ginagalaw.”
     “Wow. E, pa’no kung gusto lang niyang maging professional sa ‘yo, o totoong torpe nga lang, ngunit sa kabila niyan ay in love na pala sa ‘yo? Man. Tapos heto tayo at . . . Wow. Hindi bakla si Jesse.”
     “Sigurado ka ba?”
     “Kung saka-sakali, ngayon lang kami mag-aaway niyang kaibigan ko. At ang nangyari sa atin ay maaaring makarating sa asawa ko, . . . at iyon ay dahil sa iyo. Ikaw ang magiging pamukpok sa pako ng palubog naming relasyon, na maaaring maging daan tungo sa tuluyang pagbagsak ng aming pagsasama bilang mag-asawa.”
     “Diyos ko, hindi naman ako pure virgin, ano. Laspag na ako. Ba’t niyo ako pag-aawayan? Pero doon sa ako ang magiging dahilan ng inyong paghihiwalay, aba, kasalanan mo rin naman a.”
     They become silent.
     “Me iba bang kaibigang babae si Jesse?” Fidel asks.
     “Aba, ewan ko, kayo itong magbarkada, e. Pero, alam mo, okay din naman si Kuya sa akin. Straight ang trabaho ko sa kanya. Ibig kong sabihin, kahit do’n ako matulog sa bahay niya, wala akong pangamba, kampanteng-kampante ka, alam mo? Sabi mo nga, professional siya. Wala akong pakialam kung ano man ang sinasabi ng mga kapitbahay niya.”
     “Ni minsan . . . di kayo nag-ano?” Fidel wants to confirm, shamed, perhaps, by the fact that Jesse could be more professional with models than him.
     “Ang kulit mo—malayo nga ang mundo niyang kaibigan mo, e. Parang wala siyang sex sa buhay niya. . . . Pero, huy, alam mo ba yan si kuya? Pag pinipaint niya ako, hulaan mo kung ano ang last niyang pinipaint sa akin?”
     “Uhm, . . . mata?”
     She laughs.
     “Bulbol ko,” she says. “Oo, walang paltos, parati ‘yon. Alam ko, kasi sinabi niya. Tapos minsan tatayo ako at iyon na nga lang ang kulang. Last na lang daw, bulbol na lang, tapos puwede na akong maghapunan. Parati iyon. At alam mo ba ang kulay? Blue!”
     They laugh, but Fidel not so much. Fidel is intrigued; he never saw Jesse’s paintings that way before, he always thought of Jesse’s work as Gauguin tributes with a mytho-Christian bent. You know, axis mundi, katabasis, stuff like that, scenes like those. But still with a nude woman at the center, hehehe, Fidel is thinking now, smiling. Pubic hair.
     “Pero love ko yan si kuya. Parang nakatatandang kapatid ko siya, ganun. Love din ako niyan. Kung palamunin ako niyan, wagas. Maliban nga lang pag nakatitig sa bulbol ko, nagiging parang manyak. Diyos ko, di ko maintindihan ang art nun, 'no. Di ko nga alam ba't gustong-gusto siya ng mga kliyente niya, may pari pa nga e.”
     They both smile at this while looking at their drinks.
     “Aktwali,” she continues after a pause, “me isa pa akong asawa, at alam ni kuya Jesse yon. Yung seaman . . . di ko naman asawa ‘yon e. Pero ewan ko ba. Yung napangasawa kong iyon mas mahal pa niya ang fishing boat niya. At pag nasa lupa naman, minsan ayaw pakita sa ‘kin. Di ko rin maintindihan ang mga lalaki ng dagat. Palibhasa kasi maraming islang pinupuntahan, baka ibang sirena ang kinakasama at kinakama sa bawat pulong pagtatapunan nila ng kanilang malalaking lubid.”
     “Baka naman sobrang pagod ang katawan nila para maghanap ng saya, kulang sa tulog,” offers Fidel.
     She sighs, saying, “hay, naku. Sinasayang ko lang ang ganda kong ito sa mga lalaking iyan. Parang malas ako sa lugar na ‘to, e. Dadalawa na ang asawa ko, dalawa, na ang isa ay di ko naman talaga asawa ngunit gusto kong maging asawa, at ayaw naman akong pakasalan, tapos pareho silang mas mahilig sa dagat at ibang pantalan kesa sa ‘kin. Kaya heto ako, . . . ilang araw na lang aalis na ako rito. Magpapaalam na rin ako sa pangatlo kong boypren na ayaw akong galawin, si kuya Jesse. Tapos ikaw, may asawa kang tao, ba’t ka ba pumatol sa akin, ha?” She slaps Fidel on the chest when she says this last clause.
     “Aalis ka? Sa’n ka pupunta?”
     “By the way, hindi ka ba natatakot na makita ka ngayon ng mga kaibigan mo tapos isumbong ka sa asawa mo?”
     “Pintor ako, Karissa. Nakakainuman ko ang mga modelo ng artists. Nga lang, minsan lang ako nag-hire ng modelo rito sa Leyte.”
     “Oo nga, tapos ngayong gabi, ginamit mo lang ako, hindi mo naman ako hinire na maging modelo. Hindi mo ako ginamit sa pagpinta mo, ginamit mo ako para sa iyong . . . sa ‘yong kalungkutan. . . . Well, okey, naggamitan tayo para sa ating mga kalungkutan. Hay buhay.”
     “Sa’n ka ba pupunta?”
     “Masaya ka ba sa asawa mo?”
     “Oo naman. Kaya lang hindi ako masaya sa ginagawa ko, sa painting ko; nagsasawa na ako, kung kaya’t minsan ay madaling mag-init ang ulo ko e, sa kahit na anong maliit na bagay. Ewan ko ba. Hindi tuloy ako matimpla ng asawa ko, nag-aaway kami. O naaaway ko siya nang di ko sinasadya, at mabuti at di niya ako pinapatulan. Nananatili siyang malambing.”
     “Martir ba?”
     “Hindi. Malambing lang talaga, kaya di nagtatagal ang away namin, o ang naging pagsusungit ko sa kanya. Alam niya rin sigurong me problema ako.”
     “Babaero ka ba?”
     “Hindi. Ngayon lang.”
     “Ay, virgin ka pala,” she joked. “Pero ba’t ang galing mo?”

     She smiles. Fidel looks away, embarrassed and feeling some guilt perhaps.
     “Sa’n ka ba pupunta?” he presses Karissa. “Iiwan mo si Jesse?”
     “So, pa’no pag nalaman ng misis mo ang nangyari sa atin?”
     “Di ko alam. Bakit, . . . plano mo bang isumbong ako?”
     “Sayang naman ang relationship niyo. Dahil lang sa akin, tapos isang beses lang naman, tapos aalis pa ako.”
     “Sa’n ka ba pupunta?”
     “Hay. Maghahanap ng ibang mapapangasawang tunay. Yung may paninindigan. Pupunta kami ng kapatid ko sa Davao, nando’n ang Nanay namin. Nag-asawa siya ng isang Davaoeño last year, nung mamatay ang Tatay ko. Anyway, doon ay malayo kami sa dagat. Ibig sabihin, wala na akong makikilalang isa na namang mangingisda. Iyang mga tao ng dagat na iyan, buwisit lang sa buhay ko. Kaya, . . . At dahil malayo nga kami sa dagat, hindi na ako magbabarbecue dahil sigurado akong maraming nagbabarbecue ng mga baka at baboy sa kanilang mga bahay sa barangay na iyon. Magfifishballs na lang ako.”
     They smile at each other.
     “Alam mo, ang tingin ko sa mga lalaki,” continues Karissa, “parating naghahanap ng kanilang mga sarili. Kung hindi sa kanilang mga iniidolo, sa ibang lugar. Sa ibang isla, parang ganun ba. Para bang . . . ewan ko. Para bang parating may malaking San Juanico Bridge na . . . na gusto nilang tawirin tungo sa isang mas malaking bagay na hindi maabot-abot. Walang lalaking marunong makuntento, wala akong kilala. Hindi ba mas makikita nila ang kanilang mga sarili sa mga bagay na nasa kanila na? Di ba? Sa mga bagay na ayaw nilang mawala? Bakit hindi yun ang alagaan nila, at doon nila hanapin ang kanilang mga sarili?”
     Fidel is surprised at this eloquence and depth. Soon his cell phone rings. It’s his wife.
     “O, Wana. Oo, sandali na lang ako, nagkainuman lang kami ni pareng Jesse. Sandali na lang ako. Matulog ka na na. Okay. Ba-bye.”
     He looks at Karissa. She lowers her head.
     “Pasensya ka na, ha,” she says. “Nadala ako kanina. Kawawa naman ang wife mo. Alam mo, uwi ka na sa kanya.”
     Fidel looks at her.
     “Sige na, dito lang ako. Balik ka na sa kotse mo. Hinihintay ka ng wife mo, di ba? Tama? Tingnan mo na lang nang ganito: ang buhay, o, di ba, ang saya-saya!” When she says this last clause, it’s almost as if she’s mocking Fidel’s going away. But she actually sounds both happy and sad, seeming only to say, “happy to have met you, dude” or “it’s sad that we’re all sad people.”
     Fidel stands up and starts to walk away, but instantly turns back to hold her shoulder and say “Bye. At sorry, ha.”
     “Sorry saan? Bye.” She gets up and whispers in his ear, “i-promise mo sa sarili mo. Mula ngayon, mamahalin mo na siya ng lubusan.”
     Fidel doesn’t know what to say except “Mahal ko naman ang asawa ko, a.”
     “Yun ang akala mo. Aktwali, pareho tayo e. Tulad ngayong gabi. Pareho tayong naging makasarili. Kaya tayo minamalas, e.”
     Karissa walks toward the back of the satay stall counter, calls out another “bye,” then turns her back and gets down as if to look for something on the floor of the kiosk pantry.
     When she comes up and turns to check Fidel, he has walked away. Soon it begins to shower. Fidel runs to his car and drives dangerously, made less drunk though he was by the meal. He remembers 21 Grams again, shuddering anew. When he arrives home a little past midnight he showers.

@ @ @

March 17. Morning, cocks crowing. Fidel wakes up and kisses his waking and smiling wife whose eyes however remain charmingly closed. Fidel gets up and walks to his studio even though he could smell the aroma of brewed coffee coming from Sienna’s kitchen.

     Inside the studio, he starts to unveil a new blank stretched canvas.

@ @ @

March 30. Fidel unveils a gigantic orange portrait. It is a portrait of his wife posing beside their backyard barbecue grill, laughing very happily over broiling blue-black marlin.
     The unveiling of the portrait is slow, made after the guests in the house—including Jesse and Captain Robert and Mang Juaning and Atty. Sevilla—sang the Happy Birthday to You song in the direction of Joanna. It’s a birthday bash for Joanna, the large portrait Fidel’s birthday present to her. There’s food and drinks on the dining area table and other tables by the walls of the hall. There is music, loud chamber music.

     Fidel unveils more orange paintings that he announced are part of his upcoming show in Manila. Joanna every now and then would run to the porch area to greet some new guests who have arrived. While all the food had made the house look like a buffet restaurant, Fidel’s new paintings have turned it into a packed art gallery.

     “Preview ‘to ng mga i-i-exhibit ko sa Maynila sa mga susunod na buwan, pare,” Fidel tells Jesse. “Di ko na tinuloy yung pinakita ko sa ‘yo. Baduy."
     “Buti naman alam mo, ‘pare,” Jesse says, laughing quite cheerfully, poking Fidel’s ribs.

     The orange paintings are portraits still, one of which is that of the Provincial Board Member, Atty. Sevilla, posing with the governor and the president of the Republic of the Philippines, the three of them raising a large blue-black marlin fish held by the tail as they look back at the painter, their bodies facing a basketful of fish on the right of the painting. All the portrait subjects are wearing wide smiles.

     “Fidel,” one of the elder guests says, “mukhang masasaya na yata lahat ng paintings mo, a.”

     “A, oho, napansin ko nga ho, e,” says Fidel, laughing. “Pero, sa totoo lang po, iyon ay dahil po dati gusto ko na nangingibabaw ang background—ang landscape o di kaya yung seascape—kaya mas maraming blue at green. Ngayon, nakafocus na ako sa tao, e. Marami na kasing nagpapaportreyt sa style ko, kaya lumipat ako sa orange, para sumaya naman. Maging mas mukhang masaya ang mga tao.”

     “Talaga ha?”

     “Oho.”

     Fidel’s brother Federico seems to have arrived, confirmed when Joanna called to Fidel, “Fidel, nandito ang kuya Fredric.”

     Federico arrived with Manuel White, the film director. Federico and Manny give Joanna a buss on the cheeks, giving her little wrapped presents as well, and then they shake Fidel’s hand to congratulate him on his new orange paintings. Some of the guests approach Federico to congratulate him on this or that achievement or award.

     Fidel is eager to hear what his brother has to say about his new collection. Frederico looks amazed by the paintings. He approaches the large painting of Joanna and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? May I now present my brother’s new politics!” Fidel gets nervous, unsure of what to do, what to say. “Mga kaibigan,” Federico continues, “tinutukoy ko po partikular ang politics ni Fidel sa paglikha ng mga portraits. Mga kaibigan, mukhang ang sinasabi ng aking kapatid dito . . .”—he points to one of the paintings—“ay ito. Kung ipipinta mo ang mga tao bilang nakikilalang mga tao ngunit hindi sila talagang nakaharap, tulad dito . . .”—he goes to an old Fidel Roxas painting still on a wall—“o nakatalikod kung kaya’t di maipakita ang kanilang mga ngiti, at nangingibabaw ang dagat o lupa sa kabila kesa sa mga tao sa harap, bagkus, ang mga taong ito, hindi mo sila maaaring mabasa o mahusgahan. Ang landscape o seascape o malabong humanscape sa likod ang mas mahalaga, bagamat nandun ang mga taong pinoportray. So ang mga portrait figures, wala silang pulitika, sila ay mga tao lamang na niyayakap ng kanilang palibot. Tama? Subalit sa mga bagong paintings na ito ni Fidel Roxas, mga kapatid,”—he goes back to the orange painting—“naroon at prayoridad na ang taong pinoportray. Nakatagilid pa rin ang katawan, oo, pero nakaharap na nang todo, halos, ang kanilang mga mukha, at mas masaya, dahil sa kulay, habang naroon pa rin ang mga hamak na isda na signature subject ng ating pintor. Kaya, masaya, masaya! Sabi nga ng isang sikat na mangangawit, ‘Sa wakas ay nakita ko na, . . . ang aking hinahanap!’ Mabuhay si Fidel Roxas!”

     Everybody acknowledges the toast, laughing and nodding and enjoying the party, and Fidel bows to thank them all, smiling, as Eraserheads’ song refrain, “sa wakas, sa wakas,” plays from the radio in the banana-cue stall in front of the Roxases’ house. (Some tambays—bystanders—watched the event or what was going on at the Roxas house from this banana-cue stall as they ate their banana cues).

     “Mga kaibigan,” continues Federico, “sa mga portraits na ito, tila handa na po ang mga subjects ng paintings na mangibabaw at hindi magpaalipin lamang sa kanilang palibot. Ang maging tagadala ng saya at hindi maging mga taong paalis o papunta lamang sa mga impluwensiyang nakapalibot sa kanila. Hindi na sila parang mga karakter lamang sa isang nobela ni Émile Zola. Ngayon, ang impluwensiya ay nanggagaling sa kanila. At ang tumitingin sa painting, sumasaya rin. At ako rin ay masaya ngayon para sa kapatid kong si Fidel Roxas, at para sa ating birthday girl, ang patuloy na inspirasyon ng aking kapatid na si Joanna Apostol Roxas. Magaling!”

     Everybody applauds.

     Imagine seeing this speech from the camera of Joanna, the birthday celebrant, now roaming around in her blue jeans and white blouse while clutching her new digital camera. We are not talking about the 17-year old Joanna who had been with us invisibly.

     “Isa na lang po,” says Federico. “O mas mabuti pa, si Fidel na ang mag-announce, dahil second-hand lang ang knowledge ko tungkol dito. Tinawag lang sa akin ni Fidel kaninang umaga. Fidel?”

     Fidel approaches Federico.

     “Uhm, opo,” Fidel says. “Gusto ko pong ipahatid, at sana’y masalubong ito ng inyong palakpakan, na nitong gabi ring ‘to . . . ang ating birthday celebrant, ang asawa ko, ay magsisimula nang bumalik sa paggawa ng mga maiikling pelikula sa tulong ng isang bagong digital camera at isang bagong producer! (applause) At ang producer na iyon . . . ay ako!”

     Wild applause, which started after Fidel’s mention of “paggawa ng maiikling pelikula.”

     Everybody proceeds to loudly sing the Happy Birthday to You song again toward Wana as she is now led to the table to blow the candles on a large cake made to look like a large film reel, brought in from the kitchen by two female high school best friends of hers and by Sienna.

     Everybody applauds after she blows the candles, including Vicente who seems to have suddenly appeared unnoticed at the main doorway.

     The 17-year-old girl at the beginning of this story is now roaming around with Joanna’s digicam and pans its lens across the suddenly-silenced guests. Her camera stops at Vicente. She drops her camera, which dangles from her neck, happily shouting “Papa!”

     The 17-year-old camera-girl has disappeared, and it is Joanna who is now in front of Vicente, saying in a near-whisper, “Papa?”

     The 17-year old cam-girl had disappeared into thin air, as we said, except the camera dangling from her neck, which is now dangling from Joanna’s neck. We have to repeat that, spell it out here, to make it all clear, not only to whoever would end up directing this film but to semanticists and semioticians as well, whatever that transfer may mean to them.

     Joanna later notices two soldiers beside Vicente who, along with the old man, are also sporting smiles. Everybody resumes their talk and joyous conversation, less boisterously this time, while Vicente and Joanna embrace their understandably tight and tearful embrace. Many of the guests conversing with another guest would turn their gaze toward the mystery of Vicente’s presence every now and then.

     “Saan ka nanggaling, Pa? Saan ka ba nagpunta?”

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