He was practically crying, that good-hearted stooge. “Leandro” left as crazily as he had come. Even today, I wonder about him: how he had jeopardized the lives of his fourteen children to warn me to escape—loyal to his countryman to the end.
Of course, now I know it was “Leandro,” along with that lout Patiño, who told on Polonio and his men (with the help, of course, of the cute sister). And that’s how the government found out about the secret society, and that’s how the revolution broke out before its time, before we could get the guns from the Japanese.
Over two pesos. And a pair of poison pens.
“Leandro” was right. It’s enough to make you weep.
494 This is the sum of one sikapat. One kahati was twenty-five centavos, one salapi was fifty, et cetera. In January 1896, a few months before war began, the Katipunan raised the monthly contributions of its members from twelve and a half cents to fifty cents—see Entry #33 and Entry #38 for possible explanations. (Estrella Espejo, Quezon Institute and Sanatorium, Tacloban, Leyte)
Entry #38495
Plot II: Twelve Melons and P14 Worth of Mangga
Okay, I was party to the following incident—but really, I participated only in the guise of one and a half melons. It was Santiago who came to my door a day or so after I had disembarked from the steamship Venus. He was carrying a bulging paper bag, soaking wet.
—What’s that? I asked.
—It’s the bloody head of the parish priest of Tondo.
—Padre Gil!
I had heard the rumors of the priest’s possible assassination a few weeks before—in the covert way secrets traveled Manila: like the open rot of overripe fruit. Chismes,496 as defined among revolutionaries and civilians alike, is a chronicle of deaths foretold or at least hoped for. Everyone knew of the evil Spaniard who terrorized his parishioners about infidel Masons and revolutionary bandits and through the confessional bedeviled docile women into becoming betrayers of their own (e.g., Patiño’s cute sister). There was constant debate even among the lowly brethren about which rat to kill first when war broke out—Padre Gil of Tondo was a favorite.
—Did you kill him? I asked.
—Gotcha! that bon vivant Santiago answered, fondling the paper bag. It’s just a pair of pakwan, he laughed.
That joker Santiago, I have to tell you, was a connoisseur of melons, figurative and otherwise. From the paper bag he took out two mouthwatering gourds, one of which was already breaking apart and spreading a red trail in my kitchen. I took out the bolo, my ever-ready all-around weapon—I always kept it sharpened to perfection, you know, just in case. Just in case I have to defend myself against the cazadores, or weed the garden, or go to war. You never know.
I call my bolo The Supremo, a fond appellation.
I was about to hack the pakwan in half, but Santiago held up a hand.
—No. These are for the Japanese admiral, from the boat that just docked in Manila Bay. Want to donate? We’re chipping in for gifts to give the Japanese in exchange for their goodwill.
—You mean their guns?
—Well. Yes. We hope they’ll sell us some arms for the revolution once we scrape up the money. Didn’t you get the memo—they’re raising the monthly contributions. To buy our arsenal from the Japanese. That’s what the hero said—get guns, isn’t that right, Mundo?
—I have no idea, I said, though flattered by his question, as if I were in the know like a member of the Secret Chamber.
In fact, among certain circles, it seemed, I had at first held a privileged position when I came back, because I had been touched after all by the hero. But when I refused to divulge any secrets (I acted as if I knew it all, of course, and then afterwards kept up my silence for my own good), they all dropped me like a warm watermelon.
—You know the Japanese are now fighting the white men of Russia, Santiago explained. They’re making us Asians proud. They’re sure to help us. Tagawa will introduce us.
—You mean the skinny waiter from the Japanese Bazaar in Binondo?
—He’ll get us on the ship.
—Good. Be sure to give him a nice tip. But your pakwan gift is breaking apart. It’s seeping from your paper bag.
—I know.
—The flies are all over it.
—I know.
—You may as well cut that cracked one into two. I mean, better one-half pakwan sliced nicely, rather than a whole one that looks like a mess. The Japanese are picky, you know. They’re neat and tidy people.
—You’re right.
—Well, we might as well eat this half. No use crying over one half of a watermelon.
—I know.
—Ah, the Japanese will love this gift. A tropical aphrodisiac. Do they have pakwan in Osaka? One piece of this paradise is sure to merit at least, I think, a third of a rifle!
—Who knows?
—And one half of a pakwan should be, let’s see, two and a half pistols!
—Only two and a half? That’s not a lot, said Santiago.
—Well, including the flies—maybe less.
—You think?
—I don’t know. Only if this tastes as good as the other half.
—Well?
—Excellent! Fit for a Japanese admiral!
—You think?
—Well, maybe only for a first lieutenant.
In this way, I believe, we denuded the pair, dismantling barrels, cartridges and gunpowder, piece by piece, until only one sikapat of a pakwan was left, looking a bit wistful. And that, too, we demolished.
Santiago came back later in the day, this time with empty hands and the following announcement:
—Oh Mundo: it cannot be!
—The Japanese did not like the pakwan?
—They accepted it—twelve watermelons, plus a basket of mangga, worth fourteen pesos from our brother from Kawit, Kapitan Miong, plus a pleasant sculpture from the laborers of Laguna, among other gifts. We scraped as much as we could from our scattered brothers, who gave with all their hearts, God bless them. But they want—
—What?
—The Japanese want ten million pesos for a shipment of arms.
—Ten million pesos? Oh my sad rebellion!497 That’s a lot of pakwan, I said.
495 This,
