Forgiving imelda marcos, p.7
Forgiving Imelda Marcos, page 7
Once we were in front of the menu board, Mrs. Aquino told me I should order whatever I wanted.
“Just a hamburger.”
“Come on, Lito.”
“Okay, ma’am. A hamburger meal.”
As I was closest to the microphone, I placed my order first. Then I asked what she wanted.
“Hamburger, too.”
“One hamburger sandwich,” I said.
“No, Lito,” she said. “I also want the meal.”
I apologized and corrected the order.
“Large, please,” Mrs. Aquino said.
“Make that a large,” I said to the microphone.
“Will that be all, sir?” came the cashier.
“Yes,” I said to Mrs. Aquino’s simultaneous “No.”
“Three more hamburgers, three french fries, and three peach mango pies,” she said. “And do you still sell those kiddie meals?”
* * *
We ended up parking just outside the fast-food joint, as Mrs. Aquino insisted that I eat properly—she’d have none of that balancing-food-while-driving business. Naturally, I thanked her. I was working through my french fries while they were hot and crispy. I was trying to think of a discreet way of asking why she’d ordered so many items.
“It’s great to see that you’ve regained your appetite, ma’am.”
“Lito, I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten these things. I know they’re unhealthy. But look at me.”
I turned around to see two fries sticking out of her mouth. She grinned like a walrus. I smiled.
“I heard it can be good for the soul, ma’am.”
“Then I propose we eat nothing but fast food for the rest of our lives.”
“It does seem like that is your intention, ma’am.”
“What do you mean? This?” She rummaged through her stash of plastic bags like a dragon counting her gold. “Dear, have you forgotten my episode this morning? My stomach’s emptier than yours.”
“Of course, ma’am. I’d just be careful, you know, about eating them all at once. If I were you.”
“Oh, Lito. When did you become so serious?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?” I turned around once more.
“I said, when did you—” She burst out laughing as soon as she saw that I, too, had grown some tusks. I pushed the fries into my mouth.
“These aren’t actually for me,” Mrs. Aquino said. “I figured we might as well pass by the old house on the way to Baguio. We can get another bathroom break. We’ll surprise Manang Dionisia.”
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am. I’m sure the little ones would enjoy the kiddie meals.”
As if on cue, Mrs. Aquino’s cell phone rang. But she was busy taking big bites out of her hamburger. It rang some more before it finally stopped.
We sat there in silence, or at least almost total silence. We spoke to each other in code—through a series of cola sips, burger munches, and loud belches—first from her, then, so as not to alienate her, also from me. I felt strangely connected, something I hadn’t felt for a long time. When I asked, “Is everything still good, ma’am?” it suddenly occurred to me how similar ma’am sounded to mom, especially with our accent. I wondered if the origin of those two words had any connection. It was too close to have been a coincidence. And then I started wondering about that other thing.
“Ma’am, forgive me if it’s not my place to ask. But do you mind telling me why we’re going to Baguio?”
“I already did,” she said, in between chews. “We’re going to visit an old friend of mine.”
“Imelda Marcos is an old friend, ma’am?”
Except for a brief pause, Mrs. Aquino didn’t show any signs of surprise.
“Acquaintance,” she said. “From a long, long time ago.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that,” I said.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “I guess now you’re curious why we’re going to her house.”
“It’s not my place, ma’am—”
“But you already know why, Lito.”
Her sudden curtness flustered me. Then she asked for my food wrappers, because she said she was going out for the trash bin. I offered to take hers instead.
On the way back to the car, I kept asking myself if I really knew why we were off to see Imelda Marcos. Could it really be? But why now? What had changed? Something was not right, and it was making my stomach churn.
5
MY FATHER AND I lived in a small hut at the woodsy edge of Ka Noel’s village, where some wild fowl roamed free. Whenever the sun rose, we heard the calling of roosters, followed by the angry barking of dogs chasing them down.
We arrived at the start of the monsoon season. If I’d thought the boarding school accommodations were shabby, clearly I’d lacked imagination. Because our hut had been unoccupied before we moved in, it was in serious need of repair. It swayed and creaked during the worst of a storm. Some slats in the ceiling were missing. Bird feathers and droppings told half of the story. Termite frass, gathered like piles of sesame seeds on the rafters and the flooring, told the other.
The closest outhouse was about a ten-minute walk toward the center of the village. Nobody used it but us. Most other huts shared toilets, with about four huts to one, but ours was too far out for any neighbors to join in. My father promised that he’d build us our own toilet as soon as the sky cleared up. He also promised a new bed, a closet, and a bookshelf, because we were using the shelf we had as a dresser. We wrapped our few books in cellophane and tucked them under our beds to protect them from the rain. But I’d also like to think that sleeping so close to books offered us some very interesting and vivid dreams.
* * *
When I look back on this time, what remains with me is how I went from almost never seeing my father to seeing nobody but my father. During the first few months, in particular, the monsoon cast a kind of shroud upon the whole village, and communal activities were few. The only times my father and I were invited to mingle fell on Sundays, when Ka Noel held mass inside a small basketball court. Under the tin-sheet awning, Ka Noel preached the gospel of Marx and Jesus.
You’d be surprised, actually, by how seamless the blending of the two ideologies turned out to be. Ka Noel spoke often about the blessedness of the poor, how they’d one day inherit the kingdoms of God and of man. He railed against the rich, especially the landowners, the bankers, the money changers. He even talked down the Church establishment all the way to Rome, saying that they were interested only in preserving their power. If that doesn’t sound like Jesus on the Temple Mount preaching against the Pharisees, I don’t know what does.
Marx’s own hesitations about religion—or even condemnation of it—were glossed over in these sermons. I would find out about that only much later. Ka Noel seemed to pick and choose the things that suited him and his community, even drawing from some traditions long practiced by the local people. Still, I think it’s fair to say that most of the tribes living around those parts, whether they were Communist or Christian or what have you, would’ve thought some of the things we did were strange. Nobody admitted it, but we in the village were, first and foremost, followers of Ka Noel.
I still remember my introduction to the Eucharist, which we also called Holy Communion—another term that conveniently united the two ideologies. In any case, after Ka Noel recited his homily, he received the three gifts in succession at the altar. This was accompanied by the sound of gongs. First he blessed the unleavened bread, breaking it into pieces on a plate. Then he lifted the wine and poured it into the chalice, in remembrance of Jesus on the night before he was crucified, at which point Ka Noel’s assistant carried up a chicken by its neck. Ka Noel blessed this, too, proclaiming the sacrifice of the people and the consent of the land.
I always became very excited in the brief pause that followed. Would he do something like what my father had described with the glowing egg, or with the mahogany sticks by the campfire? What was Ka Noel going to do with the live chicken? But, other than the bird’s brief struggle as the knife swiped its neck and blood dripped into the chalice, the act soon became mundane. The congregants lined up to take part in the sacrament. The congregants retook their seats. In a short while the whole thing was over.
* * *
There was one very good reason why we and the rest of the villagers loved attending mass every Sunday: It was here, after shaking Ka Noel’s hand and getting his blessing, that we received our rations. With factory-like efficiency, the women sorted our supplies into baskets. They varied from week to week, but we could usually expect to see rice, cooking oil, eggs, cabbages, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. We’d also have dry goods like milk powder, coffee, sugar, salt, pepper, cans of sardines, candles, and matches. Sometimes packs of instant noodles appeared—those were especially prized. Other essentials, like soap and shampoo, were mostly traded. No money changed hands, of course. People bartered with meat from the animals they raised, firewood from clearing the forest, or sometimes they traded favors, like watching over children or cooking special dishes.
Since my father and I did not contribute to work in the beginning, we always received our basket with tails tucked firmly between our legs. I tell you, there was nothing quite like seeing the face of my father as he profusely thanked the women for supplies we’d taken for granted back home. His shame quickly spilled over to me, too, so that I’d bow my head as he muttered apologies, saying, “It’s temporary, you know. My son and I are in the process of adjusting.”
For the most part, the women were very generous and would wave away our excuses. Still, this did not tempt us to be sociable, and we always rushed off to our hut right afterward. And I could read it as plain as day on my father’s face: each time he received the supplies, he vowed to return only when we could do so with dignity.
One Sunday, my father skipped mass because he said he wasn’t feeling well. I made him some rice porridge and left it on the table so he’d have something to eat when he woke up. By the time I got to the basketball court, the villagers had already dispersed. I thought I might as well try my luck with the rations. There was only one woman tending to the supplies. Her lips were burnt red and her teeth stained from chewing betel. I’d never tried betel in my life, but from her expression I imagined it must’ve been very sour or bitter. She pretended not to see me. I greeted her.
“I’m closed,” she said.
I explained my father’s condition and said I was sorry for being late. I then pointed to the remaining baskets, which were still sitting on the floor next to her, filled to the brim. But Betel Lady wouldn’t budge. Again she said she was closed. “Besides,” she said, “these are for people who don’t just stay home and sleep all day.”
What could I do? I was just a teenager whose Adam’s apple hadn’t even popped. I shrugged off the insult and started on my way home.
“Just a minute,” said a man’s voice. “Come back.”
It was Ka Noel, clad in his Sunday vestments, wrapping up a conversation with one of the villagers. I waited a few feet away from them, careful not to appear too eager or as though I were eavesdropping.
“Lito, right?” he said, approaching me. He took my hand with both of his but didn’t shake it, just cupped it as though between a pair of clamshells. He always struck me as being taller face-to-face than when he stood on the pulpit. “How are you and your father?”
I said we were both doing fine. Immediately he sensed my hesitation. And I think that, if nothing else, that man had a gift for perception, because he led me right outside the door, so we could be alone. The way he did it, too, deserves some mention. If anyone saw us, I bet they wouldn’t be able to tell if it was Ka Noel leading me out or if I was assisting him like I might my uncle. So slight was the pressure he placed on my hand that, years later, I still remember it as something like dancing.
In any case, I ended up telling him everything that day. About my father feeling sick. About the holes in the roof that we’d tried to stuff with banana leaves and stems. About the mosquitoes and insects and ants that came from every which way because the hut was pervious like a sieve. I even told him, rather shamelessly, about my bowel movements. How I had to hold it in sometimes because the outhouse was too far away and I was too afraid to venture out in the middle of the night.
He laughed at this last revelation—but a soft, almost embarrassed kind of laughter. Then he squeezed my hand and said he was very, very sorry because he had been too busy to personally see to us. He asked why we hadn’t told him earlier about all our troubles. I said my father didn’t want to be a nuisance.
“Well, next time, don’t ever be afraid to tell me anything, anything at all.”
He promised he was going to rectify the situation, and I thanked him. As we made our way back inside, Betel Lady saw us and quickly snapped to attention. On Ka Noel’s prompting, she handed me not one basket, but two.
* * *
Later that same day, Ka Noel’s men showed up at our hut, bringing with them some lumber and a plastic tarp and aluminum screen. My father let them in but turned to look at me. He seemed upset. Maybe it was because I’d left him in the dark about my conversation with Ka Noel. Or because I’d troubled the villagers and, in the process, proved the utter ineptitude of us lowlanders.
I hurried off to boil water for coffee and to prepare some food. I counted at least five men, though I figured that, after several hours of work, their appetites might easily match those of many more. So I used up all the instant noodles we’d been saving, only to realize, rather too late, that this might worsen my father’s mood. When I went to consult him, however, I was surprised to see him turned into one of the workers, sawing his way through a hardwood plank.
There is pleasure to be derived in watching men who are good with their hands. Even if it made me wonder how my life had turned out this way. It made me a little sore with my father, because carpentry seemed exactly like something I should’ve learned from him while I was growing up, just as he probably learned it from his own father.
In no time the hut was sealed from top to bottom. Gone were the leaky roof and the holes in the floor. The wood paneling had been re-varnished. The windows were patched with new screens. The men had eaten up all the food and drink, then left. The place, though repaired, was a mess.
I started sweeping. My father, impressed at my diligence, picked up the mop. We worked mostly in silence but in tandem. After the dirt was cleared, we decided to wax the floor. Then, while waiting for it to dry, we washed the mugs and dishes. After that we went back to our knees, scrubbing the floor with coconut husks until it reflected our faces and our feet were numb.
Finally, he looked at me and said, “Son, I think we did okay here, don’t you?”
“I think we did,” I said. And then, as if someone or something had possessed me, I asked my father about his sickness.
He touched his forehead and said, “Gone. Apparently what I needed was some hard work.” When I didn’t respond, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
I pointed at the black smudges all over his face. He began wiping himself with his shirt.
“I stink,” I said, smelling my armpits. “But I’m too tired to go out to the well. I miss running water.”
For a moment we just sat there, staring at our handsomely restored hut, listening to the start of the pitter-patter on the thatched roof and on the plastic tarp. It was good to know we were now protected from the elements.
Then my father stood up and took off his clothes.
Before I could ask what he was doing, he had disappeared out the door. A spray of rain and cold breeze blew in and stung my face.
“Come on outside,” I heard him shout.
“You’re crazy!” I shouted back.
But as I went to close the door, I thought, Just how bad could it be? I took off my own clothes.
I had, of course, seen bare-skinned boys at the boarding school. But it’s altogether a different story to witness for the first time the nakedness of one’s parent. The pine trees and the mist surrounding us did help. They not only provided cover from prying eyes, but also made me feel like a part of nature. After all, we don’t feel ashamed on behalf of the sheep and goats and cows in the field, do we? It’s an illusion to think that we should be any different from them. This fact slowly settled in me, and soon I ceased to feel uncomfortable about my father’s body. I thought something rather primitive and profound was happening as we passed the soap and helped lather each other’s backs in the middle of a forest. It felt as if I was getting to discover something true about myself that I had long ago lost.
* * *
Having our hut fixed meant we were able to sleep more soundly that night and the many nights after. Having slept more soundly meant we were able to wake up earlier in the morning. And waking up early in the morning infused us with a new sense of hope.
One day, while I was returning from the well with our water, I noticed a plump honeydew melon sitting near the dirt path. Whether it had recently sprouted or I’d just been too preoccupied to notice, I wasn’t sure. Likely it was the latter. Because when I followed the vine to its source, I found an entire vegetable garden I’d also never noticed before. The garden had a wide variety of produce, all the kinds I missed—snow cabbage, winged beans, string beans, ladyfingers, bell peppers, eggplant—along with other greens I couldn’t identify back then.
“What do you want?” a woman’s voice called out.
When she emerged from her hut, I saw that it was the same woman from the Sunday supply store: Betel Lady. She hurried to block my passage, obviously thinking that I was there to steal. I took a step back.
