Ilustrado (39 page)

—from the 1989 short story “One Stone for Two Birds,” by Crispin Salvador

*

At the top of the hill where Makati ends and Edsa enters Mandaluyong, we hit traffic. It’s at a standstill. “Maybe an accident?” Sadie says.

“Why aren’t cars coming south into Makati?”

“Maybe a huge accident.”

We spend fifteen minutes in the same spot. Five minutes bitching, five minutes telling dirty jokes, five minutes making out.

“Since we’re not going anywhere,” Sadie says, clicking open her seat belt. “Let me get that seat belt for you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Push your seat back, sweetie.”

“Here, Sadie, let me . . . How do I adjust it . . . There.”

“Next is . . . your, fuck . . . grrr . . . buckle . . . it’s kinda diffic—”

“Your hands might work better than your teeth.”

“There you go. Damn belt. Now I’ll just unzip this . . .”

“Ow!”

“Sorry, Miguel. It’s these leather pants, they’re . . .”

“Just a sec.”

“. . . really tight. How’d you get them on in the fir—”

“Yeah, hold on. There’s a tech—”

“They’re stuck for good.”

“—nique to them.”

“You’re free! Why don’t you lean back?”

“’kay.”

“Miguel?”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nice boxers. I didn’t know you liked sailboats.”

“That’s not what you wanted to say.”

“Really. It’s nothing. Shhh. Oh, look, a nesting Balzac.”

“You like it?”

“Sure. But maybe you’ll think less of me.”

“Why would I?”

“You know, a prim and proper Assumption girl.”

“Maybe I’ll think more of you.”

“Yeah? Or at least more often. Mmm. Tastes good.”

“Oh, God.”

“And so hard! Mmph . . .”

Poo-tee-weet.

“Sadie, your cell phone . . . Um, should we get that?”

“Nope.”

“Seriously, what if it’s important.”

“Mmph. You read it. I’m occupied. Mrrph.”

“Okay, it’s, ah, from, uh, Tita Saqy.”

“My mom’s sister. Mmph.”

“Um, she says—ah that’s good—she says everyone should go to the protesters and bring them food and water, or—ah, wow, that’s nice—or at least say prayers.”

“Fuck that. We’ve got better things to do. Mmph.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Mmm.”

“Sadie?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Is the car in park?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Seriously. The car’s moving.”

“Oops. Now it’s in park. Relax. Mmph.”

“Ooh Jesus!”

“You like?”

“I’m getting boosegumps.”

“You’re funny.”

“That feels amaz—Ah! Wow. Ahhrrm! . . . Shit. I . . . uh, I think I just chipped my tooth.”

Poo-tee-weet.

“Slurp.”

“No, I’m serious, it’s so good I’m gritting too hard.”

“Mmphmm.”

“Wow.”

“Why don’t you, mmph, bring me to New York, mmph, with you? Mmph. Wouldn’t that be nice? Mmph.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Of course. Ah, that feels amazing . . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“Miguel, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s okay. Why don’t you rest for a whi—”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, it’s just . . .”

Poo-tee-weet
.

“Am I doing it wrong?”

“No, it’s so right.”

“Then why’d it stop working?”

“I’m just nervous.”

“Is it me? Am I bad at it?”

“No, the first time . . . I always have a hard time.”

“Don’t make puns.”

Poo-tee-weet.

“I didn’t mean to. I’m just nervous. Or coked up.”

“You didn’t like it? Let me just try . . . Mmph . . .”

“Come up here. Kiss me. I’d rather kiss.”

“You poor thing. Look, you’re blushing. Why are you so nervous?”

“Let’s take things slow.”

“Okay. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Really?”

Poo-tee-weet
.

*

Three college girls are walking along the street, one from International School Manila, one from Saint Scholastica, and the third, Girly Bastos, from Assumption. The trio is startled by a large lizard that crosses the path.

Screams the girl from I.S. Manila: “Oh no, an iguana!”

Squeals the girl from Saint Scho: “Ay, butiki!”

Shrieks Girly Bastos, from Assumption: “Shet, Lacoste!”

*

We read the text messages together.

The first is from Ned, Sadie’s dressage coach: Rev Mart is free! Rally bhind hm. R rewrd wil b in heaven. He prmses 2 trade hs post as Apostle of da People & run 4 prsidnt. Spred da gud wrd.

The second is from Georgie, Sadie’s classmate: “Countrymen! Take to the streets for Lakandula. But keep the peace. Quiet defiance is louder than angry shouts.”—Respeto Reyes.

Traffic inches forward about half a mile.

The third is from Pye, Sadie’s yoga instructor: Bansamoro, Estregan, and Reverend Martin to stage Christmas play with Vita Nova. Unfortunately, show’s canceled—script called for three wise men and a virgin! Hwehwehweh. A rose, for you @}--;------We crest the hill to where Edsa slopes down to the bridge spanning the Pasig.

The fourth is from Tita Daqy, Sadie’s other aunt: Estregan and Department of Health warn Chinese Flu contagious in crowds. Stay safe @ home n pray for the cuntry. Pls pas 2 as mny ppl as posible. God bless!

A phalanx of red taillights meets us. Extinguished billboards and neon signs glow with what luminosity they can suck from our headlights. Several vehicles at the front of the gathering cast their beams into a river of oily water.

“Fuck,” Sadie says. “Where’s the bridge?”

“I think it’s there. See the lampposts?”

A bus gingerly enters the water and slowly plows through. The water’s over its wheels.

“Whoa. It’s risen that high?”

The bus makes it to the other side, climbs up the incline, and continues north on Edsa. It’s followed by a semi pulling a trailer stacked with sewer pipes. A jeepney follows. It stops midway. Two figures get out, pale in the headlights of the row of hesitating vehicles. The pair tries to push the jeepney across. One of the men falls and disappears. He resurfaces a few yards downstream. The two men clamber to the roof of the jeepney and wave their arms.

“I think we should—”

“Yeah,” Sadie says, putting the car into reverse. “But there’s no
way over the median to the southbound lanes. Should I just turn around on this lane?”

“It’s too hard to see in this rain. What if there’s an oncoming truck or something without headlights? Try the underpass to the southbound lanes.” I open my window and stick my head out. Huge raindrops smack my face. The underpass leads beneath the bridge, a concrete levee keeps the water out. “It doesn’t look flooded. Yet.”

We skirt around the other hemmed-in vehicles. Some are beginning to maneuver indecisively. A few are backing up all the way, hazard lights flashing. Others are U-turning to risk driving into oncoming traffic. It’s like bumper cars before the first bump. A bus makes the bridge crossing, slowing beside the jeepney to rescue the two men. Its wake sends a wave against the levee protecting the underpass. Some water splatters over.

“I don’t know, Miguel. It’s not flooded only because of that cement thingy. I don’t want to get stuck in there.”

“Just zoom it. If it’s flooded we can back out quickly.”

Sadie drives down and through the underpass, below the bridge, and out the other end. We’re through. “Plato’s cave,” I say, trying for levity. Sadie doesn’t reply. The road inclines to the current level of the river. Over the embankment on our right I see the surface of the water. I could open my window and dip my hand in it.

“Holy shit,” Sadie says, switching off her left signal light and nudging me to look. “I don’t think we can make that,” she says. True enough, the turnoff to the southbound lanes of Edsa is flooded. We can’t get back onto the highway.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Just go straight. This road becomes J. P. Rizal, which follows the river from a height and ends up on Makati Avenue. My hotel is just off it. We can stay there.”

Sadie drives on and the road rises slightly. We’re in the clear. Sadie gives a sigh of relief and turns on the radio. “Fuck,” she says, “I need to relax. That was scary.” She puts it onto the music station.

“I think we should listen to the news,” I say. “Is that okay?”

Sadie waves her hand dismissively.

I scan for Veritas or Bombo. An excited voice exclaims: “—ots were fired and a group led by Reverend Martin has taken control of
the house, overpowering the police, in an attempt to free Wigberto Lakandula . . .”

The road continues. I turn around to look at the river. Its shimmering darkness is lighter against the shadowy embankments. The bridge is lit with the occasional headlights of crossing buses and trucks. The black shapes of buildings line the river. Several miles beyond are lights of a factory. Probably the Philippines First Corporation’s munitions factory. It must have a generator for security, especially because of the trouble with the World Wardens.

Sadie’s phone goes
poo-tee-weet
. She passes it to me because she’s driving. I read the screen. “Who’s Maqy?”

“My mom’s other sister. Can you read it out?”

The text message says: Avoid protests. Bansamoro warns of armed bandits and antigovernment rioters. Violent factions could start bloodshed.

“I wish we could go,” I say.

“Really? It wouldn’t make a difference.”

The road turns toward Makati. Unlit houses loom on either side, blocking our view of the river. Their heavy iron bars and tall metal gates do make me feel like we’re driving through a ghost town. We continue on until the road disappears beneath a flooded portion.

“. . . additional troops have been dispatched to stop the crowd which has, it is reported, begun to move from the Changco house on Zacateros down Claro M. Recto, in the direction of Malacañang Palace . . .”

Thunder rolls. The flooded area is like a maelstrom in the barrage of wind and rain. Sadie stops the car at the water’s edge and buries her face in her hands.

“Sadie. It’s okay. This has nothing to do with the river. It’s only collecting between the walls of the properties. It’s shallow. See how it’s moving? If you constantly rev the engine, the water won’t get in. We’ll get through. Easy-peasy. But you have to keep the air pushing out of the exhaust so water can’t—”

“Let’s just wait on the high ground we just passed.”

“. . . earlier reports of looting have been discredited as misinformation. The crowds so far have been peacef—”

“Wait out here? It’s the middle of nowhere. Sadie, come on. This flood can only get deeper.”

“It’s okay. I brought my gun. It’s under your seat.”

“Sadie, I’m positive we can make it. Just don’t hesitate.”

“Fine.” She puts the car in gear and revs the engine. We enter the water. It sloshes in the wheel wells and against the underchassis. “I don’t know . . . ,” she says.

“Come on, Sadie. Keep going.”

*

Back at their camp, Salvador helped drag the limping Ka Arsenio into the decrepit building that had once been a Spanish outpost. The place was deserted, but their comrades’ rice was boiling in the pot on the fire. The two men went to the window and spotted figures approaching.

“Go,” Ka Arsenio said to Salvador. “Escape out the back.” Salvador looked at his friend. As he recalled in his memoir: “I knew he wouldn’t be convinced to do otherwise than stay. Or perhaps that is a fiction I’ve created to exonerate myself.” Salvador handed his rifle to Ka Arsenio. Then he performed the Flying Panther leap, head-first through the open rear window. He sprinted to the tree line, “fleeing the new chorus of the gunshots I should have faced with my comrade.”

—from the biography in progress,
Crispin Salvador:
Eight Lives Lived
, by Miguel Syjuco

*

Across the flood and in the distance, lights of cars pass on Makati Avenue. “Come on, you can make it,” I say. A section of the road ahead runs along the river, but I don’t tell her. It has a concrete embankment anyway.

“. . . crowds have also massed at Plaza Miranda, my compatriots, where an impromptu rally is under way . . .”

“Hey, if we stall,” I say, trying to lighten the mood again, “you’ll have to save me. I can’t swim.”

“Quit fucking around.”

“Sorry.”

We push through the water, slowly but steadily. It gurgles beneath us.

“. . . Among the multitude are prominent national and local leaders includi—”

“Aw shit, fuck, shit,” Sadie says. “Fuck it.” She turns the wheel violently, to make a two-point turn. “We’ll just . . .”—she shifts into reverse—“wait it . . .”—the engine sputters—“out.” The car lurches, then dies.

We sit in silence. Sadie tries to start the engine. It doesn’t turn over. She tries again. Again. She should just quit it already. Tries again.

“Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck,” she says. She hits the steering wheel. “What are we going to do?”

I try to stay calm. “Listen. Do you have a driver at home? You do? Okay. Call his cell and have him come with your four-by-four. He can tow us out, or at least get us to safety while we leave the car here.”

Sadie rings. She bites her lip. Finally, her driver answers. Sadie’s voice is frightened and bossy. She tells him where we are.

“Coolness,” she says. “He was just sleeping. He’s on his way.” She throws the phone over her shoulder onto the rear seat. Visibly relieved, she hugs me. “If there’s one thing the masses are, it’s reliable.” She giggles nervously. Her laugh is charming. It sounds like sneakers squeaking on a basketball court.

We climb over to the back and curl up together. Her hair has the scent of Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific shampoo. My yayas used to use that on us when we were kids. I tell Sadie: “I’d have thought you use some fancy shampoo.”

“Yeah, well. I’m just a simple kind of girl.”

I bury my face in her hair. I whisper in her ear: “Smells like my childhood.”

“I hope it was a good childhood.”

“Sure it was.”

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

Dark shapes float past our windows. In the quiet of our conversation, the rain becomes louder.