273 Isn’t it easy for us to call the Propaganda Movement “shortsighted,” rather than one in a continuum of a nation’s progress? As if the flaws of the U.S. Articles of Confederation, e.g., were destiny, not contingency. “Nationhood” arises in jerky motions—more akin to awkward crablike lunges, sometimes backward or sideways, at times forward—and we pat ourselves on the back or claw at our wounds with the prosthetics of hindsight. When no nation is ever so prescient, or exceptional. (Dr. Diwata Drake, Philadelphia, PA)
274 Material evidence suggests that various fragments of this journal were written—or conceived—years before his stay in Bilibid jail where Raymundo was last seen in public, under the custody of the Stars and Stripes. My tendency is to view each section as psychologically true to its chronological placement, though the circumstances of its collation—whether or not Raymundo had time and energy to revise, redact, embellish these tracts years later, as Dr. Diwata has suggested—is matter for future scholars’ endeavors. (Trans. Note)
275 Like many of these college entries, unfinished. (Trans. Note)
Entry #22
From April to December, the same year276
A bit short, eyes expressive and ardent at times, at others languid, she was pink-cheeked, with a smile enchanting and provocative that showed pearly teeth. A form like a sylph, a figure that, let’s say, for want of a better phrase, cast a spell. I’ve seen prettier women but none more tempting.277 They wished me to draw her, but I excused myself; I did not believe I could do her justice. They kept at it. In the end I obliged; I drew her with clumsiness, with the charm of a clown. No one noticed the flaws of the simulacrum except myself. I played chess, or was it checkers?, with her fiancé. It must have been my distraction—I kept looking at her, no, she kept praising me, no, I had no idea how to play, parlor games were not part of my education in the cockpits of Cavite—anyway, I lost. From time to time she looked at me, making me blush. I couldn’t concentrate. In the end, talk turned to novels, and at least on that point I could play with advantage. Soon it was time for her to go back to her college, saying goodbye to us all. I returned to my boarding house, and I did not think much about that day. The next week I saw her again, from afar, with her fiancé and other young women.278
I changed boarding houses.279
At her college during visiting hours I saw her with my sister280 281 who had become her intimate friend. I, having nothing to say to her nor having had much of the honor of her acquaintance in the days past, did not offer more than a ceremonious and mute salute,282 like an ass. She answered my knuckle-headed gesture283 with admirable delicacy and grace.
I returned to La Concordia284 on Thursday.
As we talked I began drinking the sweet poison of love. Her glances were terrible, so sweet and expressive; her voice was melodic, as if a spirit haunted her speech. Soon a languid ray penetrated my heart, and I felt as if I did not know myself. And why did hours pass so quickly, and I had no time to enjoy them? In the end, when the clock struck seven, I bowed to her, and my friends and I returned home.
I returned the following Sunday. The night was a torment. I had made a charcoal sketch to make up for my first awkward experiment with her figure. It ended up being a sketch of a dog, but it was the best I could do. She arrived with a bag of walnuts, and I presented the charcoal. She exclaimed her delight, while she kept munching the walnuts. She was so devilishly enchanting, even with her teeth cloying from the brown sugar—her sweet, molasses-slimed smile.285
My visits continued. I restrained myself, nay, prohibited my heart to love, because she was promised to another, not to mention he was a better chess player. But I told myself: Perhaps it is I whom she loves? Perhaps her love-match, made for the future, had been an infants’ amour, in which the heart had not yet been open to know true love? Nevertheless, I told myself, I am neither rich nor handsome nor gallant nor likely to call anyone’s attention; and if she did love me her love must then be true, not built on vain and mutable foundation. But even so, I took upon myself the discretion of silence, and until I saw certain proofs of affection between us, I told myself I would not submit to her yoke nor declare myself to her.
The next Sunday I carried a clay bust, this time of a bantam chicken. It was the best I could do. She almost cried from ecstasy. She offered me an artificial flower she had woven herself, placed carefully on my hatband, a paper symbol of her love.
Another day. I went alone to her college, carrying letters for her, as well as a chicken wire dangling figurine of a horse. It was the best I could do. I felt perverse for some reason and asked the malignant nun at the front desk to send my gifts up. That day I received a note saying she was put out that I had not waited. I decided not to reply. When I visited next, she came down with a serious and formal air, I bowed to her, she barely answered, giving a slight inclination of her head, without smiling, and went on
