—Ah, Rizal. I met him, you know, when I had the hideout in Makiling. I didn’t know so many others would be joining me there. If I knew people would be fleeing Calamba left and right, whole families with straw mats and children, after the case of the Hacienda that was a disaster, I would have set up shop in Banahaw instead! The veterana tore down the farmers’ homes, and the friars drove them out of town, and they kept coming to me in droves, clamoring to become bandits. Hey, I told them, you can’t become a bandit just like that—you have to work at it! But anyhow, there I was in Makiling. I heard rumors of the German doctor who liked to take hikes and walk about with the Spanish fellow, that guard of his with the mustache and fancy uniform and a habit of painting watercolors, who followed him around. I knew it was the doctor the minute I saw him.
Tell, the men at the Supremo’s table demanded, tell how you knew.
—Because the security guard with the fancy uniform and the bag of watercolors was with him, you idiot.
Tell, the men at the table asked, tell us how he looked.
—He was tall and fair, like a German. Taller than that painting Spaniard, who was just a pygmy, an unano in a uniform, next to Jose Rizal. Rizal wore a salakot hat and a purple jusi shirt and spoke to me in my own language. So polite. He was a polite man, that doctor. He bowed to me when he saw me, as if I were a señor.
Tell, the men at the table intoned, tell us what he said.
—Good morning, he said, and I said, Good morning. We are looking for a good banyan grove, so I can show this gentleman how roots can grow out of branches, instead of the other way around, he said. It would be a nice subject for a watercolor. I said, over there. And I added, since he was nice, whenever you get a toothache, you can take a piece of banyan bark and just rub it on your gums, that helps. He answered, my old yaya used to tell me so: she lived near here, he said. He thanked me for my information, bowed again and went on his way, twirling his walking stick. And as he walked off, guess what?
Tell, the men at the table chorused, tell us what happened next.
—The grass turned purple as he passed with his cane—purple just like the shroud of the tabernacle during Santo Pascua!
Leche, someone said, he’s just like the Christ! And the Spanish want to kill him.
No, said someone else, they’ll never get him. He has magic powers, German potions.
What do you mean, magic powers? Ulol! Didn’t you hear he wants to become a doctor to help the Spanish in Cuba? He’s on their side now.
You shameless—want to fight?
It could have come to blows, except that we were tired. And anyhow, we still had to start the revolution the next day.
As I said, Matandang Leon was our troop’s leader, that rascal. Lying old bandit. The hero was taller than the unano, my ass. Still, when I slept, I had happy dreams on the strength, I believe, of Matandang Leon’s news of my father’s existence. And once more, I swore, I would speak to the Supremo the next day.
But the next morning, I slept late, and the Supremo had left to join the troops in San Juan.
When I woke up he was gone.
I didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye, much less mention. I was groggy. I still had the papers on me. I had no idea what to do with them, or why I had done it, what had come over me in Dapitan, and now I was the guardian of this albatross.
And if that weren’t enough, soon they would be sending me to war.
Matandang Leon took all of us into the sunlight, to exercise us. He showed us smart military tactics he’d learned from spying on the Spaniards when he used to rustle horses.
His face was red-cheeked, like a baby just born. In my memory what strikes me now is the smoothness of his red-cheeked face—red like an areca nut, red like a newborn babe, red like a general of the revolution.
Santo Santo Kasis!
Santo Santo Kob!
Well, all of us liked Matandang Leon’s tactics.
They were just exercises of vocal cords!
We followed:
Santo Santo Kasis!
Santo Santo Kob!
Susuko, susuko—
Sumuko ang kalaban.
It was the kind of thing, I guess, meant to keep our spirits up, even though we were already quite spirited, if you know what I mean, but it was fun making a clamor, fit to raise the dead. That was the band, of course, which finally woke up, those moochers. They were all borrowed from pieces of a church choir in Trozo, and following the code of religious fiesta they had slept soundly after the lambanog. But once they got started, I understood why wars cannot exist without marching bands.
The horns fired up our lungs, and the drums loudly admired our moves. We followed Matandang Leon’s wild gestures, Santo Santo Kob!, and the castanets jingled in happy chorus. The band major, a boy not even old enough to have a cédula to tear, waved our sanguine flag. His color troops, a pair of gawky Bulakeños, marched behind with a cumbersome medical bag, one skinny hand each holding a leather handle. If this was war, I thought, count me in—it was just like being in a fluvial procession,
