Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) (29 page)

His dinner was ready; Don Jacinto was indeed a good man—the food that his servants ate was the same as his honored guest’s.

He let the concoction cool a little, then took it to the Cripple. He was now propped up by pillows before the table and was writing in his journal, the Aladdin lamp bluish and brilliant above him.

“You must drink this, señor,” Istak told him, placing the pitcher and a glass on the table. “It is slightly bitter, but I hope it will do you good. And don’t drink anything else but this. I ask you not to cat salty food. In fact, it would be best if you had no salt at all.”

“And what is this?” the Cripple asked, raising the glass and examining it in the light.

Istak showed him the flowers and the leaves. The Cripple knew them. “There are many of these here,” Istak said. “And if there aren’t any, I can make another equally good remedy for you.”

As the Cripple took the cup and raised it to his lips, Istak recited, “
Dominus Jesus Christus apud te sit, ut te defendat et te curet …
”

The Cripple paused, and laid the cup on the table, his eyes wide open in surprise. “Do you know what you just said?”

Istak smiled. “Yes, Apo. The ritual prayer.”

“Translate what you said, word for word.”

Istak made the translation into Spanish. “May the Lord Jesus Christ be with you, that He may defend you and cure you …”

“You surprise me!” the Cripple exclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his homely face. Then he took the cup and emptied it with a grimace.

“Now you condemn me to hell as well. Perhaps it is better that I starve. Food without salt! What else did that old priest teach you?”

“What is perhaps taught in a seminary, señor,” Istak said.

The Cripple seemed pensive for a while, as if he were savoring what he drank, as if he could not quite believe what he had heard. “The world is full of surprises,” he finally said. “Here I am, a stranger to this place, to the language, and yet I feel so safe because I know I am among people I can trust.” He glanced around the room, then at the
herbolario
. “Jacinto and I were
classmates in Manila, Eustaquio. I have entrusted my life to him—just as I have done to you.”

“Thank you, Apo,” Istak said. There was nothing for him to do.

“Will you return tomorrow? Early? And have breakfast with me? If your medicine is good, I will wake up healthy!”

Istak fidgeted. He would be imposing on Don Jacinto, at whose table he had never eaten before, and now, with this awesome company. The Cripple seemed to divine his thoughts. “Eustaquio, I come from a poor family in Batangas. We must stop thinking of ourselves as inferior before those who we think have more knowledge than we do, or who are taller or fairer of skin. How many mestizos or Kastilas can speak Latin as well as you? You are very rich, Eustaquio, and your wealth is yours and yours alone. No one can take it from you. I will tell Jacinto that you will come shortly after sunrise.”

Dalin had cooked the new rice and its scent filled the house. She had also fried some dried pork, and the low eating table was already set. She waited for him to tell her how his visit was; she never asked what he did. In the warm glow of the oil lamp that dangled from the rafter, her eyes came alive with curiosity. Even after the birth of the two boys, she still retained her pleasant features, the mouth that was quick to laughter, the eyes that sparkled. Her coarse blouse seemed fine only because she wore it. But her hands were not soft like the hands of Carmencita, and her legs were dark, the soles of her feet as thick as any peasant woman’s. He must banish her unspoken anxiety.

The boys were busy with their food; Antonio, who was older, however, would turn to his father often, as if he shared his mother’s inquisitiveness.

“There is a new lamp in the big house,” Istak said. “It has a
large wick and is fed by a different kind of oil. It is very bright, ten times brighter than candles and our own lamp.”

This was not what Dalin wanted to know.

“He is a kindly man,” Istak finally said. With his hand he shaped a ball of rice and then dipped it in a dish with fish sauce and sliced lemon. “He is ill—and I will see him again tomorrow. And yon know, Old Woman, he wants me to have breakfast with him. This farmer Istak, having breakfast with such a noble person. I cannot believe it.”

Dalin smiled, pleased at the honor given her husband.

Istak seldom had Po-on on his mind now; still, there were instances out there in the soggy fields when he remembered. Memories no longer wrenched from him the ancient sorrow. His granary was always full, the
bangcag
and the guardian that watched over it had been kind, too; the bamboo thrived, the orange trees bore sweet fruit, vegetables grew even during the dry season—all he shared with relatives and neighbors who were too lazy to plant. He was a good provider; he was a better teacher.

Night came swiftly to Cabugawan. After supper, Dalin cleared the low eating table, then leaned it against the palm-leaf wall. She placed the leftovers into a coconut shell which Pedro, the younger boy, took below the house for his dog, Lightning. Dalin drew up the bamboo ladder.

The two boys slept in the kitchen while Dalin and Istak slept in the small
sipi
which adjoined the living room. Below the house were the plows and the harrow, a couple of hoes, and the loom Dalin used for weaving.

The small window would stay open till they were ready to sleep. Dalin had closed the other windows and slung a pole
across them so that they could not be opened from the outside. The two
carabaos
and a calf were in their corral by the granary; there had been some cattle rustling in Carmay and Sipnget, but none so far in Cabugawan. Any stranger wandering in the neighborhood would be announced by the barking of dogs. One rainy night, a howling roused Dalin from sleep. She gripped the arm of her husband, who was then wide awake, too. He crept to a crack in the buri wall and peered outside to see shadows moving toward the corral. He opened the small window slowly. He kept a basket of stones ready for such a time. He started pitching with all his strength at the forms in the dark. Thuds, a scream of pain, men rushing, and soon the shouts of neighbors who had also been wakened. Not one of the
carabaos
in the village was taken. How would it be if the rustlers had guns? So much uncertainty and violence threatened them now, and those who plundered the countryside often did so in the name of the revolution.

Again, the thought came swiftly—if only he and his family could flee to some deeper forest where they could clear and work the land without being badgered by other men. This was what so many had done—the fugitives from Spanish forced labor and the lash, the
mal vivir
, who had challenged the wilderness or sought community with the mountain peoples—the Aetas, the Balogas, the Bagos—and became one with them. He could do this with confidence born out of the sweat, the agony of having tried. He knew how to pit his intelligence against animals, even against some of nature’s whims. In fact, nature was no enemy but a friend. There was tight kinship here, all his neighbors shared with him this beginning. Would they all be driven away again and be estranged from one another? Everywhere there was no peace such as he might have found had he become a priest. And again, old Padre Jose came to mind.

Time had dulled Istak’s earlier enthusiasms, and even his
preoccupation with faith and liturgy now seemed a precious memory. How was it ever possible for him to believe in the seeming omnipotence of prayer? Of Padre Jose’s missionary courage? Did he delude himself in believing completely what he had learned in the sacristy? It was what he learned from there, after all, which had made him what he was. Would it have been better if he had had the open mind to accept all there was to accept, even the unexplainable such as those things which he witnessed? There were those aspects of living that need not be questioned anymore, the futility of it all, the dying, this night that covered the land, those distant stars that Galileo was troubled about.

In the kitchen, one of the boys was already snoring. Beside Istak, the softness of Dalin. Lifting the rough blanket which covered her, his hand slid up from her smooth, flat belly to her breasts. They were firm still in spite of two breastfed babies. She turned onto her side, breathing on his face, and laid an arm around his chest. Outside, in the corral the calf was mooing and a night breeze stirred in the bamboo grove beyond the house. The air smelled of harvest, of the good earth.

“I wonder what he wants,” Istak said softly.

“It is an honor,” Dalin said, “when someone like him needs you. It could be dangerous, too.”

“He told me that.” He quickly remembered.

“And we are small people, Old Man,” she reminded him.

Istak did not speak. Long ago he had learned how to live with his smallness. This woman beside him made him strong, his fate more bearable.

In the morning, at her urging, he had a breakfast of coffee, fried rice, and roasted dried venison. Dalin told him he would
be uncomfortable before the Cripple; he would be so self-conscious of his manners that he would not be able to take two mouthfuls.

Don Jacinto met him in the wide
sala
. The sun was already up, yet the house seemed dark but for the shine of the hardwood floor and the mirrors on the walls.

“Apolinario is really impressed, Eustaquio,” the
cabeza
said, beaming. “And I did not know you could speak Latin.” He slapped Istak affectionately on the shoulder.

He was ushered into the room of the guest. The Cripple was not there; he had been transported to the nearby
azotea
, which was now flooded with the morning sun, brilliant on the potted palmettos, on the red tile floor.

The Cripple was still pale. Beads of perspiration clung to his brow. The cook came with their breakfast in trays and Don Jacinto left them. The Cripple’s food—upon Istak’s order—was now almost without salt, and he grimaced as he ate the broiled fish and fried rice.

“As you can see, Eustaquio,” he said, “I am a very good patient.” He took the glass of light brown liquid and drank all of it.

“I feel better,” he continued. “And my urine, it was clearer this morning. I drank four glasses last night.”

The Cripple turned and picked up two lead pencils and a beautiful new notebook beside the food tray. “I hear you don’t accept payment—so take these. You are a teacher. You need them.”

As Dalin had said, Istak had difficulty eating even with the Cripple’s continued urging. He had never used table napkins before or the silver that the Cripple was using, although he had seen them in the sacristy.

“It is your kidneys, I suspect, Apo,” Istak said. “They are
probably not working well and what you are drinking merely helps clean them. I am not sure it can do everything if the damage is serious. I am not a doctor, Apo.”

“In the absence of one, you are heaven-sent,” the Cripple said. “And since you are my doctor now, I will tell you frankly what I fear.” The Cripple beckoned to him to come close so that he could listen better. Now his voice became softer, as if revealing a horrendous secret. “You must keep this to yourself. Will you promise that, Eustaquio?”

“Yes, Apo.” He had emptied his cup and felt invigorated; the coffee was real.

“When I was young”—the Cripple’s face was now dark with gloom—“I had this terrible fever. I was so weak, I could hardly move. It lasted but a few days and when it left, I thought I was finally well, except for my legs. They felt numb. I tried to rise but couldn’t. After I had eaten, I thought I would be stronger. When I finally had sufficient strength, my legs could not support me. I was so surprised and sad—I cried when I fully realized that I had become a cripple. But not here!” He laid a hand on his breast. “And here”—he gestured to his head. “I had medical care, of course, but I think I went to the doctor too late and so I am like this. Which is just as well. You see, the Spaniards found it too much of a bother to imprison a cripple. They thought that I would not be able to do them any harm. They let me live, but my friends—well, they were all shot at the Luneta.”

Istak listened intently. He had heard so many of these stories in the past, he bore witness to what was done to him and his father. Then they took his brother, too, as if his brother’s life were forfeit and his more important, reserved for some design that was not for him to know, just as the Cripple was saved from the firing squad.

“I am happy that you are here with us, Apo,” Istak said.

“But you pity me because I cannot walk,” the Cripple said,
his face brightening. “Let me tell you a secret—while these two legs are useless, the third leg is still sturdy but unused!” Istak looked at the thin wasted legs. Yes, it would be a miracle if the Cripple could walk again. Istak grinned; the Cripple was not made of stone; he knew how to laugh. But then, the Cripple suddenly raised his hand and brought it down hard on the table, rattling the silver and the plates. “Oh, that I were not like this, imprisoned in this damaged body. If only I could use my legs!”

The sudden irruption vanished quickly. “It would be a miracle, Eustaquio, if I walked again?”

Istak did not answer. He tried to recall what was in the medical encyclopedia that Padre Jose had in the library and which he often read.

“I am not optimistic anymore. But then—” A scowl came over the Cripple’s face, his eyes suddenly blazed. “
¡Sin vergüenza!
” he cursed softly. “And do you know what my enemies spread about mc? Those wealthy mestizos who ingratiated themselves with the president? To destroy mc, who exposed their perfidy and stood in their path, they spread the rumor that I had syphilis. Syphilis—it damages not just the body but the brain! No, they did not say it bluntly, to my face and hearing. They insinuated it, hinted at it. In this, I couldn’t confront them, fight them. The people close to mc, they knew it was a lie. That behind this is nothing more than greed and, perhaps, envy. I never aspired to wealth, Eustaquio. So I can look any man in the eye. Remember this, Eustaquio. Remember this.”

Istak had finished the hard-boiled egg, the fried rice from Don Jacinto’s kitchen much tastier than what he had at home; it was fried with pork fat and had bits of onion and garlic.