451 On Dapitan, Rizal had reverted to his family’s primary occupation, farming. He was good at it. When he left Dapitan, he bequeathed quite a bit of land to, of all people, his barber. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
452 In his last years (did he know they would be his last?), Rizal settled into domestic occupations. By all accounts, he lived the active life of a gentleman farmer, like a placid man in Tolstoy, without the deadly spiritualism, or George Washington, without the slaves, and with a full set of good teeth. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
453 Bombay meant itinerant trader from India: from a Spanish epithet, obviously racist. Isn’t that so, Ms. Translator? Mimi C.! Mimi C.! (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
454 Toilet: from the Spanish casillas. Pukutan, of course, means fishing net. Mimi C., silence is golden, but will you at least do your job? (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
455 No. This is Raymundo’s story now. Leave him alone. (Trans. Note)
456 A specter from childhood rises. What happened to that cottage industry of educators who codified details of Rizal’s entire life in K through 6 reading primers, Unang Baitang until Ika-anim na Baitang? Their details were both pious and quotidian, moral and trivial, a reverent, gossip-filled annotation of his life. Like many, I happily measured out my life in the Rizal Caravan, and to this day my first memories of reading follow the Stations of the Hero’s Cross: Grade One, His Family. Grade Two, His Childhood. Grade Three, His Studies. Grade Four, His Travels. Grade Five, His Exile. Grade Six, His Trial and Death. Raymundo Mata appears, but only implied, in a cameo role, in Ikalimang Baitang: Ang Kanyang Retiro—he’s never even mentioned in the chapter on Dapitan. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
457 I’ve never liked Rizal’s nickname. In Waray, it is profane. Ay, dios mio, I can still see Albino, a.k.a. Wild Gamao, and Miguel, a.k.a. Green Muhog, rolling on the aisles laughing at the name. Illiterate first graders—mental cripples! (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
458 Sssh! (Trans. Note)
459 Aah, sssh yourself! Raymundo’s expletive has resonance. The cult of Rizal as a martyr Christ-figure is banal and banál at the same time. A whole mountain of devotees cherishes his relics and sings praises to his name, even as we speak. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
Entry #33
June [1896]
He was tanned, gaunt, and he carried a cane. A white handkerchief was pressed in the pocket of his cotton shirt.
He laughed.
He had a slight mustache, neatly trimmed by some fantastic barber, I have to admit—where’d he get him on this forsaken land?
—Who were you expecting, he said, Bernardo Carpio?460
The women chuckled and clapped their hands in my direction: I should have bowed. At your service: Mr. Mata, the blind buffoon!
I can’t begin to tell you my consternation.
That was it, my crowning moment, the day that marks my spot in history, and the climax to which this narrative, not to mention my life’s farce, has been ascending.
I met my hero, and he laughed at me.
My face flushed, I hid behind Rufino as if by that futile action the damage could be undone. But Rufino stepped away, that traitor, pretending he had no connection to me.
Bastard.
But most of all, you should have seen the look on Dr. Pio’s face, damn him—he was laughing fit to die, just like the rest of them.
Still laughing, Doña Sisa asked her brother, and now ignoring me as if I was just a wasp flitting by: And your birthday? How did you spend it?
—With ninety milligrams of quinine, he promptly quipped. I had a fever. I never believed this body was prepared to live past thirty.
And with a look of pathos, or apology, I couldn’t tell which, he glanced toward Josefina, as if about to tell her something, but his sister interrupted.
She introduced Don Procopio, whom she called to my surprise by his real occupation: doctor. And then Dr. Pio did the honors of introducing us.
—Doctor Rizal, this is my patient who awaits your verdict: Don Raymundo Mata of Cavite.
—A fine name for a blind man, eh, Mr. Mata, the hero chuckled.
At first Dr. Pio didn’t laugh. He was always late to get the joke.
—Ah, ha ha, good one, Dr. Rizal. Mata. Eye. Mata.461 I never thought of that.
Oh no, you wouldn’t, I thought, you fool.
And thus singled out, still flustered, I muttered my apologies, excuses, a mumbled confiteor. But everyone went ahead up the stairs to the writer’s salon, not waiting for my reply.
Not even Rufino glanced at me, muttering ojo, mata, ojo, as if stunned by a revelation. On the way up, he turned to me and said: Ha! I never thought of that. El un genio, aba! Then he proceeded on his own, ass, leaving me to stumble on the steps with growing blindness as dark descended. So much for having a servant, I thought.
I won’t go into the various jokes at my expense, blindness and all, that went into Dr. Pio’s subsequent comments on my wayward tongue, bantering remarks before, during, and after dinner. Maybe it was convenient for the revolution to portray me as a dolt. And so leavened by levity, we entered the hero’s cool home.
But before the hero could even commence to share its pleasures, a messenger arrived with a letter.
—Ah, the hero exclaimed, he saw you all already.
Looking at our surprised faces, he added: It’s a note from the governor. I must go.462
He went into his rooms to change into a gray suit, an elegance completed by his fine kamuning cane. He bade a hasty farewell and left us.
It was only Rufino who shook his head with foreboding over this interruption. The rest of us accepted the fruit and hot chocolate from a bandaged, grave houseboy, and
