Or, to continue the literary motif, Aramis de Kawit (to be jumbled cleverly into a fighting anagram, Iskrima de Tawa396)?
Or what about Rodolphe, after the hero of the Mysteries of Paris?
I mean, why I called myself a blind freaking rodent only an ass can explain. What was I thinking?
In any case, Paniki I was and Paniki I shall be.
In the meantime, they were still trying to cast out Masonry from Miong’s soul, while to my credit I was two steps ahead, albeit transformed into a son-of-a-bat.397 398
Later, I reminded the Supremo of our first encounter and asked about the lame critic in the shawl.
Ah, he said, that’s just the way he is, old Ka Pule—Don Apolinario to you. He will out-Rizal Rizal.
That’s blasphemy, I exclaimed.
The Supremo laughed: Wise men like Don Apolinario are not the same as you and I.
You must be joking, I said.
Who’s this?, Miong asked (finally passing his test, and, I might add, choosing an entirely appropriate name, after a saint, no less,399 400 401 unlike some out there who may as well have been baptized by lizards).
Oh, you should meet him—Don Apolinario is sickly, but he has more brains than all of us put together.
I was skeptical and wanted the Supremo to elaborate, but we were running out of time.
It was almost curfew, and after the ritual libations we had to leave.
But, oh, I had so many questions now that I had found him again, the defender of the holy book’s honor. He seemed like an amiable man, the Supremo, and I thought if I pumped him, he’d tell me all he can. Especially, I wanted to know about that noble sequel in question, which, after all these years, I had still not read. After the Writer’s exile, the authorities were brutal, and anyone with the books kept them locked in their trunks. People bragged they owned them but no one saw them around. It’s tricky for readers when their favorite author is an outcast. I mean, if you ever tried to get their autograph, it might kill you. I kept getting mixed reviews from different people who, I now realize, were as ignorant as I. Did Elias resurrect (I guess not, unless Jesus Christ turned up)? Did anyone kidnap Maria Clara from the convent? So many cliffhangers that demanded solutions! But the night was almost over, and anyway, they wanted to talk about revolution.
On the way out of the house, I noticed a shelf covered in a scalloped cloth. That was it, I thought. While Santiago and Miong said their grim goodbyes, each looking a bit stunned, with that constipated look of those who’re sworn to deathly secrets but can’t wait to share them, I took off the cloth and found it: quite a library of novels and histories. The Supremo had a sinful stash. I saw, with a stopped heart, that the fatal book, El Filibusterismo, lay under the runner, innocent as can be. And I will confess now, as that time is over and my days are numbered, it was on that evening that I was sorely tempted to commit my first crime. I desisted. Hurriedly, I covered it up again and walked on. I left the Supremo’s copy of the secret book on his shelves, unmolested, though I do wonder where history has purloined it, trusting as I do in the mischief of time.402 403
367 The memoirist speaks in the declarative present. Presumably memoirs cannot sustain the declarative tone because the shackled focus of the present tense limits the writer’s lens. Isn’t that right, Ms. Translator? Is there no one home anymore to make the remarks about language—hah, Mimi C.? (Estrella Espejo, Quezon Institute and Sanatorium, Tacloban, Leyte)
368 Here the memoirist employs a straightforward simple past, a retrospective tone with a broader frame of vision than the declarative but still bound by temporal limitations. How does that sound, Mimi C.? (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
369 The memoirist sets up a jarring mix of the future (couched in the present tense) and the present (couched in the simple past), indicating a flash-forward in time, a fatidic tone that has a mix, slightly vertiginous, of anachronistic prophecy and unavoidable tragedy. A memoirist uses the fatidic tone rarely, or not at all, as it has its dangers. I for one prefer to know exactly what happened to Benigno! (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
370 And you, the critic, use the obvious tone: come on, Estrella, silence! (Trans. Note)
371 That is, little mayor. The term is both aggrandizing and condescending; Raymundo’s tone splits the difference. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
372 In Quiapo (the Fonda Iris, on the other hand, was a dubious hostel in Paco Dilao). Well-known haunt of streetwalkers, or mujeres publicas. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
373 Sssh! Silence! (Trans. Note)
374 Zacateros sin zapatos: Raymundo’s penchant for alliteration continues. (Trans. Note)
375 Sssh! (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
376 Une petite petate: annoying French indulgence here. Petate simply means mat-bundle, or portable sleeping mat, of woven straw. (Trans. Note)
377 That’s a thought—Emilio Aguinaldo carrying his banig to sleep over at his friend’s house. The last time someone did that at my house—when I was twelve—our houseguest had to stay over because of the dictator’s martial-law curfew. She ended up giving me kuto, and it took me weeks to get the lice out of my hair. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
378 That’s a charming thought, Estrella, but as we have agreed: let’s just read! (Trans. Note)
379 What? How? You can speak but I cannot? Enough of the vow of silence! Our readers need our wisdom. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
380 Sssh! (Dr. Diwata Drake, Kalamazoo, Michigan)
381 Silvestra “Betang” Rivera was Rizal’s aunt and mother of Leonor Rivera, the hero’s doomed fianceé. Was she related to the pilot from Bai? It’s tempting to note coincidences, but real life is not so: Leonor was from Dagupan. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
382 A capitalist at a tender age, Emilio Aguinaldo dropped out of high school when his father died; he became a daring young merchant on a seafaring banca, buying and selling fishing nets
