Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) (28 page)

I
n another year, a new ruler—and a new enemy—had come. The Americans had defeated the Spaniards and were now battling the republic’s poorly equipped army. General Aguinaldo had none of the giant horses and the big guns that enabled the Americans to move with speed and overwhelm the puny units that faced them. They were also a ruthless enemy who defiled women and bayoneted children. In a few months, they had taken most of Luzon and were soon advancing to the north. Rosales was not on the main road. In Cabugawan, Istak and his kinfolk waited, wondering if they should flee to the forest.

Well ahead of the Americans, together with the monsoon in July, there came to Rosales in secret a man whom they all held in awe. Only a few saw him, but everyone knew he was in the
safest, most comfortable place in Rosales—the house of Don Jacinto. Apolinario Mabini, the famous thinker and ideologue of the revolution, was a cripple. He arrived in the night in a hammock carried by bearers who left as quickly as they had come. As a leader of the new republic, he was a hunted man and surely the Americans would soon track him there.

Istak was faintly curious. The revolution had never really mattered much to him. He had gone over the copies of
La Solidaridad
and returned them; when his benefactor had asked him what he had found in them that impressed him, he had said quickly that there was great truth in what the
ilustrados
wrote about being rooted in the land. This truth was self-evident to those who worked the land themselves.

Don Jacinto did not reply; perhaps he understood that there was no measure for love of country except in sacrifice, and why ask the poor for more sacrifices? It was the comfortable, the rich like himself—although Istak did not put it this way—who should express it with their wealth. The poor had only their lives to give.

On this day, Istak had gone to the delta, to Sipnget, to attend to a sick boy whose father had come to him begging with an offering of two live chickens. Istak always helped even if there was no gift. More than a decade had passed since they had crossed the Agno for the first time and always, upon reaching the river, he prayed for the soul of his mother.

It was late in the afternoon when he returned to Cabugawan. The rains had paused and the sky was clear. As he entered the arbor of bamboo which shaded the village lane, he saw Kimat, Don Jacinto’s horse, tethered to the gatepost.

The rich man was waiting in the yard, talking with Dalin.
Soon it would be dark; the leaves of the acacia had closed and cicadas announced themselves in the trees. From the distance that was Rosales, the Angelus was tolling, and after Istak had greeted Don Jacinto, they stood still in silent prayer.

The rich man did not come often to Cabugawan, not even during the harvesttime; he had entrusted his share to the honesty of men like Istak, and the settlers had not failed him. He was burdened with having to run the town at a time when chaos and lawlessness prevailed. He had done this well, relying not on force but on the respect that the people had given him. He was, after all, the only one from Rosales who had gone to Manila to study.

“I have been waiting for some time now, Eustaquio,” he said, smiling. In the dimming light, his face was drawn and pale, even stern. “Your Dalin and your two boys have been very good company. I even had a taste of
suman
and a cup of your new
basi
. I say it is ready, although Dalin says it is not.”

“You are a better judge of that than I, Apo,” Istak said.

“I came here to take you to town,” he said. “Now—if you have nothing else to do. I have a guest … you know that, don’t you?”

Istak nodded. “It cannot be hidden, Apo. Not in the way he arrived. Most of all, because he is with you.”

Dalin wanted them to eat supper first. She had broiled a big mudfish and the pot of rice on the stove was already bubbling. Don Jacinto demurred; they must hurry and they could very well eat in his house.

On both sides of the darkening trail, the fields spread out, deep green in the fading light. Soon they would turn yellow and golden with harvest. Istak walked beside Don Jacinto, who was astride his horse, mosquitoes and moths around them, the frogs tuning up in the shallow paddies.

“What do you know of my visitor, Eustaquio?”

“Nothing much, Apo. That he is your old friend.”

“Nothing can really be hidden in this town,” Don Jacinto said. “Still, you must remember that there are spies, people brown like you, and we must make his presence as secret as possible. The Americans are no different from the Spaniards. Do you think it matters that we are destroyed as long as they get what they want?”

Istak did not speak. He had always been circumspect before those who wore shoes and jackets. He had long believed that only by listening would he be able to acquire more knowledge.

Don Jacinto noted his silence. “I did not get you so that we could discuss the politics of acquiescence,” he said. Then he explained what had happened—both the Cripple’s
^*
manservant and secretary were ill and had left. And now, the Cripple himself was not well. He was always perspiring. Something was wrong with his urine—it was darker than usual and pains were shooting up his sides. The mention of pain in his sides alerted and alarmed Istak, but he could not be sure until he had seen the sick man.

It was already night when they reached Don Jacinto’s house. Like most of the people of Rosales, Don Jacinto’s father came from the north. He had done the
cartilla
in Rosales and then went on to Manila, and upon returning, he acquired more land. His father was an enterprising trader and knew how to please the friars as well. More than that, he had his son learn not just the intricacies of the law but how to deal with officials. No
one in Rosales had suspected that the man who was very friendly with the friars and the
capitán
of the Guardia in Urdaneta, who often played chess and drank sherry with him, was actually a member of the northern revolutionary junta. They did not know that when studying in Manila, he had met other young
ilustrados
who were to lead the uprising against Spain.

Now, he was
cabeza
, and though there was not a single soldier in town, Rosales was peaceful. The town fiesta in June, which should not have been held anymore if only to protest against the friars who instituted it, was held just the same with the
comedia
and all the delightful entertainment that he arranged.

The oil lamps in the big house were all lighted and frames of yellow glimmered from the shell windows. The dogs in the yard howled, and out of the open gate, a man on a horse galloped into the night.

Don Jacinto reined in his mount. “I hope he did not bring bad news from Tarlak,” he said softly, more to himself than to Istak, as he cantered into the yard.

Up at the great house, in the sallow glow of the lamps, the red floor shone, the porcelain pedestals stood serene in corners, the carved wooden chairs with crocheted covers were all in place as if the house were not intended to be lived in. Istak followed Don Jacinto across the polished hall to the
azotea
beyond, and to an open door which led to a large room. It was better lighted than the hall itself—a new Aladdin lamp dangled from the ceiling, ablaze with light, and at both ends of the massive table, two other lamps were perched. Don Jacinto’s visitor was seated at the table, a sheaf of newspapers before him. The Great Man wore a white cotton shirt that hung loosely about him as if it were too big. Though young, he looked wasted and had a sickly pallor. He was poring over papers, shaking his head and cursing
under his breath. Istak could make out the
“sin vergüenzas”
as they erupted in an almost steady stream.

“I hope it is not bad news, Apolinario,” Don Jacinto said in Spanish.

The Cripple did not even look up from what he was reading. “It is always bad news now, Jacinto,” he said, also in Spanish. “We are facing a superior enemy, as you very well know, with far more resources than the Spaniards. And still we haven’t learned. Our generals quarreling. No discipline! And these Americans, they also have the means to tell the world how righteous they are …”

He finally turned to them, flailing a sheet of paper. “Here is the latest outrage by their correspondent, this wretched Thomas Collins—calling our soldiers cowards who refuse to fight in the daytime—that when we fight at all, we are always running.”

“But wasn’t that what you wanted, and General Luna, too?”

“Of course, of course!” the Cripple exclaimed and drew back, sitting straight. Beside him was a reclining chair and with great effort he eased himself into it. Don Jacinto strode forward to help him, but the Cripple waved him away, saying, “I told you, I told you …”

The Cripple drew a shawl over his wasted legs. “A guerrilla war—that is what we must now wage. But General Aguinaldo—forgive me for saying this—he is selfish and stupid. He is envious of generals like Luna who tried to put some discipline into the army. Luna is dead, killed by the same people he sought to discipline. We lost a good leader, one who could build a fighting force from the rabble … and yet, much as I loathe Aguinaldo and disagree with him, he is now the symbol of resistance against the enemy. My personal feelings—” He paused and looked upward to the ceiling adorned by an unlighted chandelier. The soft, warm voice continued: “How can I reply to their
charges, show that we are ready to rule ourselves? And when are a people ever ready? Should another race determine that for them? Our constitution—it embodies our national sentiments and can stand as a document of freedom with any other free constitution in the world.” He dropped the sheet of paper on the floor.

“These Americans, this Thomas Collins, they do not understand. Or perhaps they don’t want to understand because what they really want is to subdue us. Still, I have to reply to such lies so that the world will know we are not cowards or immature children. Do you know that in one of his dispatches he said all Filipinos are thieves? Their soldiers camped in Manila told him this—that unless their supplies were well guarded, they would all be stolen by Filipinos. If so, then let it be! It is not thievery to steal from them—it is an act of war, and may Filipinos bleed them to death …”

“How long did the courier travel from Tarlak this time?” Don Jacinto asked.

“Less than a day’s ride,” the Cripple said. “So I really am not too late with the news—” The Cripple stopped and looked at Istak, who remained standing by the door, hearing everything.

“You can trust him, Apolinario,” Don Jacinto said quietly. “This is Eustaquio. He understood everything we said.”

Istak bowed and fumbled for words: “Good evening, Apo.” The familiar Spanish words flowed out finally.

Don Jacinto continued: “There is no doctor anywhere near but Eustaquio is very good. He has taken care of many people. If we have to have a doctor, we have to go to Tarlak.”

The Cripple shook his head. “The Americans will soon be there,” he said wanly.

Don Jacinto nodded. “Give him a chance to help you.”

“I do not have a choice,” the Cripple said, suddenly laughing,
the pallid face instantly transformed. He was homely and dusky, with a narrow forehead, but the severity of his countenance was banished. He was just another man still in his youth, brimming with humor.

Don Jacinto left to arrange for their supper.

“I hope that my humble self can be of service to you, Apo,” Istak said in very polite Spanish and in the same obeisant tone with which he had always addressed Padre Jose.

The Cripple looked at him, then shook his head. “Do not speak to me in such a manner, Eustaquio. I am not old or venerable. Besides, I am really at your mercy.” He pointed to one of the rattan chairs close by. “And don’t stand there. Sit down.”

Istak took the proffered chair. Beside him was a porcelain washstand with a polished mirror, and close to the Cripple’s bed was another table piled with books, an inkstand, and sheets of paper. The man had been writing and Istak could see the careful script. Istak could still write as well as that, perhaps even better. He had taken pride in his penmanship but had not held a pen in a long time and had done whatever writing he had to do with a pencil.

“Tell me, Eustaquio,” the Cripple asked. “How is it that you speak Spanish so well?”

“I was an acolyte in the church of Cabugaw, señor. In the Ilokos.”

“Jacinto says you are a healer. How long have you been one?”

“About ten years now, Apo,” Istak said. “I learned a little from an old priest about medicinal plants. And, of course, with prayer and God’s help there is always hope.”

Silence. Then the Cripple spoke again: “I have been suffering for some time now. I have pains here,” he said, pressing his sides. “You cannot see it now because the pan has been emptied,
but when I urinate it is very milky. And I perspire so much, as you can see.” He wiped his brow, which was moist even in the cool September evening.

His meal came in—the new rice still steaming and fragrant, salted eggs, a small dish with salted fish and sliced tomatoes, and dried meat which was fried.

Istak shook his head. The Cripple wanted to share the food with him but Istak demurred; he would take his meal with the servants in the kitchen after Don Jacinto and his family had eaten. He stood up; he had confirmed what he suspected. “I will go now, Apo,” he said. “I will come back shortly with your medicine.”

In the dining room, Don Jacinto had already sat down with his family to eat and a servant hovered by the table waving a paper wand to keep the flies away. “I will return in a short while, Apo,” Istak said.

He hurried down the deserted street, disturbing the stray dogs lying there. At the edge of the town, he looked at the saplings, then crossed the creek to the other side until he came to a young banaba tree. He could make out the blossoms; they would be a pretty violet in the sunlight. He reached out to a low branch and plucked a lot of them together with the young leaves. With the bundle under his arm, he returned to Don Jacinto’s house and told the cook to boil some of the flowers and the leaves immediately.