Despite my straining to hear, I could only get a few muffled comments, the occult words “massage,” “duck,” and “proctology,” what with bandurria players and firecrackers picking away in pesty pizzicato all around us.
But when Miong spoke, I heard it loud and clear.
For one thing, he was right next to me, screaming in my ear.
—And since the honorable doctor Pio Valenzuela needs a patient to go with him, a blind man in need of help, both spiritual and medical, I offer him a perfect decoy, Bulag here—who certainly needs a good doctor’s guidance. He’s a learned and honest patriot: Don Raymundo Mata.
And he put his hand on my shocked shoulder.
What was he talking about? Was I going to Dapitan? Not me: I cannot kill a fly much less capture a man from the Spaniards. They have guns and cannons. I’ve never even caught a moth. What? Of course, you can, Raymundo: did I not read The Man in the Iron Mask? Did I not devour the Lives of the Presidents of the United States, in translation, but hey, I know what they did to the British? Sure, I can learn how to pull a gun in the name of my country. What? Pull a gun! I’m as blind as a bat in the night. Plus, I’m an insomniac, an easily distracted filibuster with a weak digestive tract. I’m a panicky Paniki, not even worthy of the name of Elias! Or Rodolphe. So help me, God. Whoever you are. I can’t even make up my mind to be a Mason!
—Don Raymundo will pay for his own passage and bring a leper, if he so chooses. I mean, helper.
Oh really? That’s asking too much of my hospitality.
Looking down, I noted Miong’s gun in his waistband and kept quiet.
The Supremo then proclaimed:
—Decided. To ask advice and guidance on the matter of war—to resolve our decision on when to revolt—doctor Pio Valenzuela will visit the honorable doctor Jose Rizal in Dapitan. The blind patient Raymundo Mata will accompany doctor Valenzuela to provide cover for the visit.
Hey, hey, I thought: I can still see. I’m only nightblind!
The Supremo yelled: Mabuhay ang Katipunan!
Then he shot a pistol in the air.
Not to be outdone, Miong took out his own secret gun and exploded it right next to me, in tandem with the fireworks of Antipolo. Oh por dios, have mercy! The explosion was so loud I almost fell off the boat.
Miong exclaimed: Mabuhay si Doctor Rizal!
—Mabuhay!
—Mabuhay!
I almost fainted, and I have no recollection of what happened after. To be honest, I’m not so sure of what happened then, pushed blindly as I was into history—yes: shoved with shotguns like a decoy duck into the blasted fray!409 410
405 Since the memoirist is unsure, let me add: “that wit Dimasalang” is Rizal. Readers at the time conflated writers with a number of personages; Rizal himself was often mistaken for some Prussian wit. (Estrella Espejo, Quezon Institute and Sanatorium, Tacloban, Leyte)
406 Comments from foreign travelers in the nineteenth century always include remarks on the pintakasi—featured cockfights during fiestas. The French found it an amusing natural phenomenon, describing human gestures as they would the plumage of birds; the Spaniards were grumpy about the childish brutality of “the natives.” Rizal himself believed any form of gambling was a waste of time, so that his fellow patriots in Barcelona avoided him because he was k.j.: killjoy! During the war, revolutionists had cockfights in between battles, and when they won battles they had cockfights to celebrate them. But let us go on and just read, hmm, Dr. Diwata? Dr. Diwata? Have you calmed down? Okay, okay. We will keep our words to a minimum from now on. Have you calmed down from your dyspeptic attack? Yes, we’ll let Raymundo speak. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
407 My guess, given his previous wordplay: karinderya en calzoncillos. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
408 Sssh. (Trans. Note)
409 O History! O Words! The story of Raymundo Mata’s moment in history is so fraught with alternity—from Santago Alvarez’s Katipunan to Emilio Aguinaldo’s Gunita—and this, his own narrative, has about it a confusing frisson, a watery aura of prophetic chance. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
410 Sssh! (Dr. Diwata Drake, Dapitan, Zamboanga, Philippines)
Entry #28
May [1896]
Meetings, meetings, meetings. Everyone was getting tight those tense months, especially Miong and the Supremo, with Santiago as their boulevardier, a man of camaraderie and joie de vivre: he took great pride in his connections, just as I took pride, as you can see, in a useless book of French vocabulary.
There they were, a band of brothers, Egalité, Fraternité, et al., wandering back and forth from Manila to Cavite and talking constantly of stratagems, fired up by conspiracies, fearful, thrilled by all sorts of possible calamities. As for me, I could never get a word in, though they took snacks in my rooms and schemed in my humble abode while Rufino offered them cup after cup of barako. (On Miong’s advice, I had taken in my cousin Rufino411 as my helper, which, despite the old man’s Chabacano independence, was a surprisingly good call on the part of Fate.) It seems to me I was the only one with a regular job, and for this I was treated like a lackey. But in truth, and I hate to admit this, I was envious of Miong’s easy friendship with the Supremo: they treated each other like blood brothers while I could at best come up with the soulful mien of an idiot cousin, twice removed.
Once, Miong arrived from Cavite in a huff, a sight not unfamiliar to me and Rufino but a matter of concern to the Supremo, who asked, Don Emilio, what is it?
We were resting as usual, lazily drinking lambanog. I remember we were eating the roasted stones of langka seeds; they were not quite done, and I kept spitting out the mealy pith, mentally cursing out Rufino, who, I’m sorry to say, was negligent about his duties, especially
