Dusk: A Novel (Modern Library Paperbacks) Read online

  We rented a jeep with which we forded the many turns of the Buaya River; it was the dry season, so the river was shallow. We entered narrow valleys and went up mountain trails until the jeep could go no farther because the ascent was too steep. I am sure that some of the young men we met along the way were members of the New People’s Army, for this part of the Cordilleras was their domain.

  We finally reached a settlement at the foot of the trail that led to the pass, and I asked the villagers what they remembered of the battle. There was a very old man who said he was a child then, and all he could recall was the sound of guns.

  The trail actually had been widened to allow carts and horses. It was a shortcut from the Ilokos to the Cagayan Valley, and the Spaniards kept it open through the years that the priests preached in the Cordilleras. It was almost noon when my wife and I stopped climbing. A sedentary city man, I was dizzy from exhaustion. In any case, I already knew what the pass looked like, as I could see it plainly from below where we had stopped.

  The first draft took a month to write. I was invited to attend a seminar at the Bellagio Conference Center in northern Italy, and after the conference, I was permitted to stay on to write the novel. Bellagio used to be the property of an Italian nobleman, but the Rockefellers bought it and converted it into a conference center, with quarters for the participants, a beautiful library, and one of the most scenic locales in all Europe. The villa itself sits on a promontory; on one side, to the right, is Lake Leggo, and to the left, the larger Lake Como. I used to take the hydrofoil from the village of Bellagio to Como, and from there, the train to Milan—a two-hour trip.

  To reach Bellagio, you take a car from the airport closest to Milan and drive through a scenic route, the road hugging the sides of the mountain, and on the left, through turns and dappled foliage, the shimmering Lake Como. I got to the villa before noon, and there at the entrance was the entire staff lined up—as if I were royalty coming for a visit. Never before had a welcome been as formal and as impressive as this one.

  A Japanese friend who had been a guest at the villa asked if I liked wine, and I said, frankly, I did not drink much because of my diabetes, and he said, “Bellagio will be wasted on you because the lunches and the dinners are served with an unending flow of wine!”

  It was my first experience of northern Italian cooking, and I got to know more than the pizza and the spaghetti that we in Manila usually consider as Italian food.

  It was also the first time I used an electric typewriter; in all the years that I have been writing, I had always used a manual portable. I was assured there would be a typewriter for me, so I did not bother bringing my old faithful. But they no longer had manual machines, so I had to learn how to use an electric machine. I then realized how much more productive I could be with it, and it is with this assumption that I have now shifted to a computer.

  The manuscript was revised eight times and is still undergoing some minor corrections.

  In the late sixties and early seventies when I was lecturing in the United States before the committees of the Council on Foreign Relations, I said that if the Americans did not suffer from historical amnesia, they would never have gone to Vietnam. In the Spanish-American War, 250,000 Filipinos (whom the American soldiers called “niggers”)—mostly civilians—were killed, and thousands of Americans—many of them veterans of the Indian campaigns—were also casualties. As in the Philippines, in Vietnam the United States came face-to-face with that indomitable force, Asian nationalism.

  The Spanish-American War was objected to vehemently by many Americans, including Mark Twain. On my first visit to the United States, in 1955, I met Robert Frost in Ripton, Vermont. He related how he, too, was against the war, believing that a nation that won its freedom in revolution must not, cannot, impose its hegemony on a people waging a revolution for freedom.

  I have had all sorts of reactions from readers: one, a scholar, asked me where I got the letter from the priest in the beginning of the novel; he said it read like a historical document. I had to tell him that I wrote it myself, patterned after letters written in the 1880s.

  In re-creating Mabini, and endowing the peasant Eustaquio Samson with the habiliments of a hero, what I had intended to show was that nameless thousands of Filipinos then, and now, are capable of epic heroism. All too often, our history is adorned with heroes of high station; there is nothing written about the common people, the foot soldiers who die in the hundreds so that their generals may live.

  In writing this novel, I have also tried to look at our history not with the mind-set of historians and scholars who focus on major events and participants. I have focused instead on the “little people,” to give them a nobler image of themselves.

  I will perhaps be accused of being a revisionist, of creating new myths by edifying what is common. I understand only too well how myths become enshrined in a people’s psyche, how Olympian heroes become role models.

  But in presenting my hero in Mabini and the peasant Eustaquio Samson, I am presenting an ancient truth that many historians have overlooked.

  A WORD

  TO THE READER

  This novel contains expressions and words—some Spanish, some specific to the Philippines—that may be unfamiliar to the reader. A glossary has been included at the end of the book.

  BANTAY, ILOKOS SUR

  MAY 3, 1880

  My Very Beloved in Christ,

  Reverend Father Superior:

  Once again, I will acquaint Your Reverence with what has transpired in this distant post where I served for more than forty years, and once again I will summarize my activities during my last year there and beg your indulgence for what I will relate, knowing full well that you have grown tired of listening to me, particularly my insistence that we need more young people in the missions and, therefore, more of the Indios in the seminaries.

  As evidenced by these figures from the mission, you will note moreover that the baptisms and marriages have increased while the deaths—barring another epidemic of cholera or smallpox—have decreased.

  From these records, Your Reverence will also see, perhaps with some satisfaction, that there has been an increase in the population, not just in Cabugaw but in other towns, sometimes as much as double, during the last ten years. This makes it really necessary for us to build more churches—an activity for which we have always been known, attesting to our capabilities as builders, and for which I am justly proud.

  The entire region is showing commercial importance. While it is true that indigo has been our best crop, now we are also harvesting more cotton. The woven cotton sent to other regions of Filipinas has increased. The raising of draft animals continues and our horses are sold all the way to Manila, where they often win at the races. I hear that even the Archbishop keeps some of these beautiful animals. As a matter of fact, when I was transferred here from Cabugaw because, as Your Reverence said, of old age and infirmity, I had hoped to be sent to Manila instead so that I could see how these horses run in the races. Having cared for them, I know their breed has improved. As for their endurance, I have ridden them across the Cordilleras several times. They have been reliable, and sturdy as well.

  As for tobacco, it is true that the crop has increased the revenues and pleased the principalia, but the monopoly has created for us many problems. It has transformed honest men into thieves. We have had this monopoly for decades and I am glad that it will soon end.

  Early next year, I will celebrate my fiftieth year in the priesthood, most of these years in Filipinas. Half a century! That I have served this long, still read without glasses, and write with an even hand as you can see, proves that I am still capable and should not be shut up in retirement. I should be ministering to the people or actively teaching in the seminary across the river.

  But the wishes of Your Reverence must be served.

  I must now reiterate my thinking about the conditions, not only in our province, as I know them and as gleaned from travelers.

 
The people have not forgotten the execution of the three mestizo priests in Cavile eight years ago. They were from distinguished families noted for their urbanity, education, and of course, loyalty to Mother Spain. It is not for me to recall the ecclesiastical arguments concerning this tragic event; people of greater experience and wisdom have already commented on it. I am merely looking back and reexamining the arguments or the circumstances from which we can learn so that we may continue to build the Church as strongly as we have done during the last three centuries.

  I say this knowing that in other parts of the world, particularly in America Sur, our influence is no longer what it used to be. Even here in Nueva Segovia this demonic English organization, this Masonry, has already reached out with its evil tentacles under alluring guises and seduced some ilustrados.

  But before I proceed, may I describe what I consider to be the Ilokano character. I will make generalizations and, of course, there are exceptions, for in any community there will be those who do not conform.

  The half century I have lived here has convinced me that the Ilokano is trustworthy; he knows gratitude and regards it as a paramount virtue. If we were to look for friends, they should be Ilokanos because I cannot think of a more loyal people than they. They are also hardworking, persevering, and frugal Their industry is such that they work from early dawn to late at night, particularly if there is moonlight, unlike the Tagalog and the Bisaya. And they have enduring patience. The women sit at the loom all day long. They harvest their rice stalk by stalk, and not with the sickle. They are not only patient, for after the harvest there is not a single grain in the field that has not been gleaned.

  They do not waste anything—everything is useful. The trees around their homes, the plants in their gardens—all bear fruit or can be eaten. But beware; the water buffalo is a patient, friendly, and docile animal, but when it is angered, it is also the most vicious of creatures. Run away from it for your life is in danger—this we must always remember. Our tragic experience with the rebel Diego Silang has shown that such madness can spread like the plague.

  The Ilokanos are true Catholics and nowhere else have they built churches as industriously and as devotedly as they have in this province. They are truly devout and they observe all the holy days of obligation.

  I say all this, Your Reverence, because I feel deeply about what is happening in this part of the country, the growing discontent that is not yet expressed but will soon be. We could do so much as men of God to show to our flock that we not only mean well, but that it is only under the protection of Mother Spain that this land can be with God and progress.

  Your Reverence, we have often prided ourselves on our sense of history. Indeed, history should be kind to us, for we have not been remiss in our tasks. But our service was not always tempered with wisdom. We know that we are not going to be here forever, that the institutions we are building can only last for as long as they are cared for by Indios themselves. For them we have already given our time, our sweat, and even our lives. And I worry that they will not care for these nor will they bother to strengthen what we leave them if they don’t see these—our ministrations and the Church—as theirs. It cannot be otherwise; these institutions are in their land although we transferred them from a distant peninsula.

  It is not for me, Your Reverence, to blunder into a realm about which I know little. But I have lived here so long, I can feel the passions which, I know, are seething in the hearts of many in my flock. This is not our country and these people are not related to us by blood. A wide and cruel ocean separates us and, try as we may to impart to them what we know, they will always be Indios and we, Spaniards. They will imitate us and we flatter ourselves hoping that it is the best side of our nature that they will copy—the dignity, the pride that we have in ourselves. But this will not be so; they will instead inherit our vices, and as I look around me, I can already see what those are—the greed and the corruption that exist in the highest reaches of the principalia here as it had existed, too, in Valladolid.

  This is not what we want. When the time comes, I pray that we will go peacefully.

  For the first time, some of their young men are now in Europe, learning what we ourselves have learned. Surely, they will return, their minds enlightened, their thinking broadened, in a way perhaps that ours would never be because we wear the cloth. While we have a spiritual depth which they cannot equal, they will also be more familiar with the secular world, which we sometimes do not fully understand.

  It is inevitable, I think, that they should be prepared not just for the duties which all citizens of Filipinas should shoulder, but more than this, they should be equal partners in the leadership. The world is changing; we have already seen what happened to our provinces in the Americas. The time approaches when they should sit side by side with us in our highest councils not because this is what they want but because this is what we ourselves desire.

  This means that there should be more Indios selected not just from the principalia and the mestizo families, but from the peasantry, who will have to go beyond the cartilla. In the seminary, I should be teaching not just a dozen pupils but three or five dozen so that our strength and our influence will be permanent.

  Forgive me, Reverend Father, for what I now have to say. Forgive these thoughts of an old man who has been touched, perhaps by fever, but just the same, please listen.

  Eventually, we may have to admit into our Order the native priests we have trained and train them further in our Houses in Spain, not because we believe they are equal to us—which is sometimes difficult for me to believe because I have always regarded them as children—but because they should be able to manage their own house eventually as all children must when they grow up.

  Your Reverence, I know that there are loud dissenting voices in our fraternity, that our military grumbles, and many of the officers find the idea abhorrent. In your last visit to the mission, for instance, I am sure that you remember Capitán Gualberto of the Lawag garrison, how trenchant his views. But Your Reverence knows as well as I do that where the sword is used, the cross is cursed. Capitán Gualberto’s objections are not really insurmountable, as can be seen by the effectiveness of our ministrations where we have persevered.

  In the Ilokos, Your Reverence, we have succeeded because we have remained and worked with the people, who showered us with goodwill and sincerity. These cannot but be reciprocated.

  I have mentioned how bright some of our wards have been, and it is very sad to see that they cannot go beyond the schooling now permitted them. Some ten years ago, for instance, I brought into the mission in Cabugaw a farm boy of ten whom I had confirmed. There was something in the boy’s face which proclaimed not just his intelligence but qualities of leadership. I taught him Latin, too, gave him the books those studying for the priesthood read. I also taught him the little I know of physics, astronomy, botany, and explained to him the native plants of medicinal value. I taught him what I knew of anatomy. I let him read The Confessions. He was full of questions.

  He showed great intelligence, for which his race is not particularly noted. I am aware of the advice against someone from the lowest ranks eventually joining the priesthood. He is still in Cabugaw and I mention him only to show how capable they are in learning and, perhaps, in administering their own affairs, so that those of us in the Order can attend to the more important duties at hand—the eradication, for instance, of Masonry.

  We have been here so long. This alone convinces me of our God-given obligation to the Indios. I expect to spend my last days here in Bantay just as so many of us have done and I am happy that my life is my contribution to Mother Spain and to God.

  We will be reviled, as, indeed, this is already being done by envious men of dark intent, but it is only because they do not appreciate the legacy that Catholic Spain has bestowed upon them, a legacy which assures them, even if they don’t believe it, of one foot in heaven.

  I remain, your devoted servant.

  Jose L
eon, S.A.

  The concerns of Eustaquio Salvador, the sacristan about whom I have spoken with much praise in this letter, matter to me very much, Your Reverence. May I seek your permission that he be allowed to enter the seminary in Vigan? I ask this knowing that he will fulfill his duties with loyalty and devotion, and that he will serve his people and Mother Spain.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Dusk is the day’s most blessed hour; it is the time when the spirits of darkness drift slowly down the bright domain. The acacia leaves droop, the fowl stop their cackling and fly to the boughs of the guava trees to roost, and as the light starts to fade and the shapes of trees and houses and even the motions of people seem shrouded, the essence of time, of change, and the brevity of life itself is realized at last.

  Istak often felt like this about the day’s end. If he were still in Cabugaw, where he had served as acolyte for the last ten years, he would now be going up the musty flight of adobe to the belfry. There, in the murk of early evening, he would toll the Angelus, stirring the bats that hung in the rotting eaves. It would be dark when he would go down the flight, the clap of bells still humming in his ears. In the past, he sometimes bumped into a protruding abutment, but he had learned to avoid the traps in the corners. Down the dim hollow, he would hurry, hurry to the convent where old Padre Jose had already said the Vespers and would be waiting to impart his blessings to Istak first because he was the oldest and the best, and then to the younger acolytes.

  Now, it was dusk again. He hurried up the path to their house at the other end of the village. A lightness of spirit lifted him; he would have the first good meal ever since he left the convent. In the late afternoon, before he went to the fields, he had watched his mother dress the chicken; told her he must have the gizzard and the liver. Mayang had humored him with the promise, then sent him back to the field to help fill the gaps in the dikes before the rains came and ripped them apart.