When I returned, “Leandro” took me aside.
—Who’s the better man, he asked, the guy Polonio from Tondo, who has nothing to do with us, or the pious daily communicant Patiño, the choice of your countryman from Cavite?
—The choice of my countryman, of course.
I gave the right answer, and he let me go.
In that way, I could go on calmly reading the pages. I will admit: with a folly that to this day I cannot fathom, I had begun taking a few sheaves with me to the shop, and I read in the warehouse where I hid them in what I believed was a clever decoy pile amid mounds of soiled newsprint.
Now I remember the period in the newspaper bodega as a time of mystical elation: I was wrapped in my halo of criminal reward. Mice, cockroaches, and lizards coexisted with my vermin understanding; dust, cobwebs, and ink-gas oppressed my breathing; and in that pulpy cave of papers, I was disturbingly conscious of being alive.
In reality, it was itchy, smelly, and unhygienic, and actually wasn’t any good for my lungs.
All hell broke loose that afternoon, of course, and how was I to know my reply to my brothers was of such moment? I was about to leave. My stash was almost done. It had been harder to decipher the script than I had thought—especially since I did it in fits and starts, emerging from the dazzle of my abstraction into the drudgery of the printing shop; and by the time I was ready to set off for home, to which I could literally walk blind, such being the blessing of routine, twilight was falling, and it was impossible to read by gaslight. I admit I was getting reckless because my labors would soon be over. I was almost done with the novel. And most distressing of all, and I hate to say this—I felt dumb.
After all this time, I had no idea where the hero’s story was going.
It seemed to me that the confused state of the narrative echoed the perilous conditions of my reading: a tenuous unraveling and a distracting multiplication of scenes and voices, even, to my annoyance, of languages and genres, as if the author had yet to settle on the merits of which attractions.
Not to mention: my eyes hurt.
Patiño arrived at the shop in a rage just as we were about to close. His hair’s lunar sheen sparked with his madness, his saliva compounded with his pomade to send out oily satellites of his venom.
—Who’s the thief? Who’s the secret stealer from this shop?
My heart grew cold.
I froze in the middle of adjusting my trousers.
This was the question that, each day, I expected.
Who had discovered me, who knew my plot?
—What? Polonio’s men cried to pale Patiño. You’re the thief! Trying to be foreman when it is not your due!
As if at a signal they all began to clump together, joined against the greasy, raving printer.
It seemed to me a kind of ludicrous denouement was about to erupt from an invisible crisis that had completely passed me by.
—Liars! screamed Patiño, so agitated that tears streamed down his face. You’ll get it for this!
Polonio, Letra, and Figura just smirked.
A broad figure appeared at the doorway: fat “Leandro,” my countryman, who was waving an incriminating sheet of paper.
—Who wrote these lies, “Leandro” bellowed.
—Yes, who wrote the boss calling me a thief? Patiño screamed. I never stole blocks of types, especially vowels, and sheaves of paper from the press! Liars and schemers! I’ll show you who’s the secret conspirator in this shop! I know what you’ve been doing all these months. Filibusteros!
At this, people surrounded the plastered madman with the plastered hair. But before the rumble could begin, I snuck away, breathing freely.
No one knew, I sighed with relief: the pages were safe against my chest.
I was already in bed that night when I heard the knock at the door—his heavy breathing clued me to his presence.
I let him in.
The outlines of his figure, like an incipiently roasting pig, exuded sweat and gristle. He was panting.
—“Leandro”?
—I know you’re part of their secret, he said.
—What secret?
—The lists. They found evidence of a secret society. Your printing stones, your ledgers, even the sums of your donations. God, what were you guys thinking—that you could win a war with one sikapat a month? Twelve centavos! A half of a quarter of a real among fools! You all make me want to cry. Hala ka, Mundo. They know your name.
—What are you talking about? I’m not with them, I said.
Technically, I was not lying.
I was signed up for the Kawit chapter, under Emilio’s lead.
I had nothing to do with Polonio.
Miong and his men claimed my dues: twelve cents and a half494 whenever I could hack it.
—Don’t lie to me. Tonight the veterana confiscated the records your group hid in the printing shop. Stupid! Why a secret society would leave their papers with names, for God’s sake, in a goddamned public place of business, only the devil knows! Padre Gil, the confessor of Tondo, reported you—with information from the pious daily communicant Patiño. That’s what you get for sending poison letters when it’s you who poison the land!
And he sounded—I could barely discern it—ineffably grieved.
—What are you talking about? “Leandro,” get a grip!
“Leandro” looked ready to shit his pants.
—That damned Patiño!, I couldn’t help add. That’s what you get from going to church. Daily communicant, that dirty mouth! Daily informer is more like it! Anyway, my name is not on those lists! My name is on the lists of Kawit!
—Purbida! I knew it, Mundo. You know I didn’t see the names, but I thought you were part of it—with your secret movements during siesta and those pamphlets you keep reading in the bodega when you think no one can see. Hala ka! You better get back home. Leave Manila. Go back to Kawit. They’re arresting your people all over the place. Your poor uncle. After all he’s done for you. You
