The Reign of Greed
of channel marked out in the river by tree-trunks, she moves along with
a satisfied air, except when a sudden shock disturbs the passengers and
throws them off their balance, all the result of a collision with a
sand-bar which no one dreamed was there.
Moreover, if the comparison with the Ship of State is not yet complete,
note the arrangement of the passengers. On the lower deck appear brown
faces and black heads, types of Indians, [1] Chinese, and mestizos,
wedged in between bales of merchandise and boxes, while there on the
upper deck, beneath an awning that protects them from the sun, are
seated in comfortable chairs a few passengers dressed in the fashion of
Europeans, friars, and government clerks, each with his puro cigar, and
gazing at the landscape apparently without heeding the efforts of the
captain and the sailors to overcome the obstacles in the river.
The captain was a man of kindly aspect, well along in years, an old
sailor who in his youth had plunged into far vaster seas, but who now
in his age had to exercise much greater attention, care, and vigilance
to avoid dangers of a trivial character. And they were the same for
each day: the same sand-bars, the same hulk of unwieldy steamer wedged
into the same curves, like a corpulent dame in a jammed throng. So, at
each moment, the good man had to stop, to back up, to go forward at
half speed, sending—now to port, now to starboard—the five sailors
equipped with long bamboo poles to give force to the turn the rudder
had suggested. He was like a veteran who, after leading men through
hazardous campaigns, had in his age become the tutor of a capricious,
disobedient, and lazy boy.
Doña Victorina, the only lady seated in the European group, could say
whether the Tabo was not lazy, disobedient, and capricious—Doña
Victorina, who, nervous as ever, was hurling invectives against the
cascos, bankas, rafts of coconuts, the Indians paddling about, and even
the washerwomen and bathers, who fretted her with their mirth and
chatter. Yes, the Tabo would move along very well if there were no
Indians in the river, no Indians in the country, yes, if there were not
a single Indian in the world—regardless of the fact that the helmsmen
were Indians, the sailors Indians, Indians the engineers, Indians
ninety-nine per cent, of the passengers, and she herself also an Indian
if the rouge were scratched off and her pretentious gown removed. That
morning Doña Victorina was more irritated than usual because the
members of the group took very little notice of her, reason for which
was not lacking; for just consider—there could be found three friars,
convinced that the world would move backwards the very day they should
take a single step to the right; an indefatigable Don Custodio who was
sleeping peacefully, satisfied with his projects; a prolific writer
like Ben-Zayb (anagram of Ibañez), who believed that the people of
Manila thought because he, Ben-Zayb, was a thinker; a canon like Padre
Irene, who added luster to the clergy with his rubicund face, carefully
shaven, from which towered a beautiful Jewish nose, and his silken
cassock of neat cut and small buttons; and a wealthy jeweler like
Simoun, who was reputed to be the adviser and inspirer of all the acts
of his Excellency, the Captain-General—just consider the presence there
of these pillars sine quibus non of the country, seated there in
agreeable discourse, showing little sympathy for a renegade Filipina
who dyed her hair red! Now wasn’t this enough to exhaust the patience
of a female Job—a sobriquet Doña Victorina always applied to herself
when put out with any one!
The ill-humor of the señora increased every time the captain shouted
“Port,” “Starboard” to the sailors, who then hastily seized their poles
and thrust them against the banks, thus with the strength of their legs
and shoulders preventing the steamer from shoving its hull ashore at
that particular point. Seen under these circumstances the Ship of State
might be said to have been converted from a tortoise into a crab every
time any danger threatened.
“But, captain, why don’t your stupid steersmen go in that direction?”
asked the lady with great indignation.
“Because it’s very shallow in the other, señora,” answered the captain,
deliberately, slowly winking one eye, a little habit which he had
cultivated as if to say to his words on their way out, “Slowly,
slowly!”
“Half speed! Botheration, half speed!” protested Doña Victorina
disdainfully. “Why not full?”
“Because we should then be traveling over those ricefields, señora,”
replied the imperturbable captain, pursing his lips to indicate the
cultivated fields and indulging in two circumspect winks.
This Doña Victorina was well known in the country for her caprices and
extravagances. She was often seen in society, where she was tolerated
whenever she appeared in the company of her niece, Paulita Gomez, a
very beautiful and wealthy orphan, to whom she was a kind of guardian.
At a rather advanced age she had married a poor wretch named Don
Tiburcio de Espadaña, and at the time we now see her, carried upon
herself fifteen years of wedded life, false frizzes, and a
half-European costume—for her whole ambition had been to Europeanize
herself, with the result that from the ill-omened day of her wedding
she had gradually, thanks to her criminal attempts, succeeded in so
transforming herself that at the present time Quatrefages and Virchow
together could not have told where to classify her among the known
races.
Her husband, who had borne all her impositions with the resignation of
a fakir through so many years of married life, at last on one luckless
day had had his bad half-hour and administered to her a superb whack
with his crutch. The surprise of Madam Job at such an inconsistency of
character made her insensible to the immediate effects, and only after
she had recovered from her astonishment and her husband had fled did
she take notice of the pain, then remaining in bed for several days, to
the great delight of Paulita, who was very fond of joking and laughing
at her aunt. As for her husband, horrified at the impiety of what
appeared to him to be a terrific parricide, he took to flight, pursued
by the matrimonial furies (two curs and a parrot), with all the speed
his lameness permitted, climbed into the first carriage he encountered,
jumped into the first banka he saw on the river, and, a Philippine
Ulysses, began to wander from town to town, from province to province,
from island to island, pursued and persecuted by his bespectacled
Calypso, who bored every one that had the misfortune to travel in her
company. She had received a report of his being in the province of La
Laguna, concealed in one of the towns, so thither she was bound to
seduce him back with her dyed frizzes.
Her fellow travelers had taken measures of defense by keeping up among
themselves a lively conversation on any topic whatsoever. At that
moment the windings and turnings of the river led them to talk about
straightening the channel and, as a matter of course, about the port
works. Ben-Zayb, the journalist with the countenance of a friar, was
disputing with a young friar who in turn had the countenance of an
artilleryman. Both were shouting, gesticulating, waving their arms,
spreading out their hands, stamping their feet, talking of levels,
fish-corrals, the San Mateo River, [2] of cascos, of Indians, and so
on, to the great satisfaction of their listeners and the undisguised
disgust of an elderly Franciscan, remarkably thin and withered, and a
handsome Dominican about whose lips flitted constantly a scornful
smile.
The thin Franciscan, understanding the Dominican’s smile, decided to
intervene and stop the argument. He was undoubtedly respected, for with
a wave of his hand he cut short the speech of both at the moment when
the friar-artilleryman was talking about experience and the
journalist-friar about scientists.
“Scientists, Ben-Zayb—do you know what they are?” asked the Franciscan
in a hollow voice, scarcely stirring in his seat and making only a
faint gesture with his skinny hand. “Here you have in the province a
bridge, constructed by a brother of ours, which was not completed
because the scientists, relying on their theories, condemned it as weak
and scarcely safe—yet look, it is the bridge that has withstood all the
floods and earthquakes!” [3]
“That’s it, puñales, that very thing, that was exactly what I was going
to say!” exclaimed the friar-artilleryman, thumping his fists down on
the arms of his bamboo chair. “That’s it, that bridge and the
scientists! That was just what I was going to mention, Padre
Salvi—puñales!”
Ben-Zayb remained silent, half smiling, either out of respect or
because he really did not know what to reply, and yet his was the only
thinking head in the Philippines! Padre Irene nodded his approval as he
rubbed his long nose.
Padre Salvi, the thin and withered cleric, appeared to be satisfied
with such submissiveness and went on in the midst of the silence: “But
this does not mean that you may not be as near right as Padre Camorra”
(the friar-artilleryman). “The trouble is in the lake—”
“The fact is there isn’t a single decent lake in this country,”
interrupted Doña Victorina, highly indignant, and getting ready for a
return to the assault upon the citadel.
The besieged gazed at one another in terror, but with the promptitude
of a general, the jeweler Simoun rushed in to the rescue. “The remedy
is very simple,” he said in a strange accent, a mixture of English and
South American. “And I really don’t understand why it hasn’t occurred
to somebody.”
All turned to give him careful attention, even the Dominican. The
jeweler was a tall, meager, nervous man, very dark, dressed in the
English fashion and wearing a pith helmet. Remarkable about him was his
long white hair contrasted with a sparse black beard, indicating a
mestizo origin. To avoid the glare of the sun he wore constantly a pair
of enormous blue goggles, which completely hid his eyes and a portion
of his cheeks, thus giving him the aspect of a blind or weak-sighted
person. He was standing with his legs apart as if to maintain his
balance, with his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat.
“The remedy is very simple,” he repeated, “and wouldn’t cost a cuarto.”
The attention now redoubled, for it was whispered in Manila that this
man controlled the Captain-General, and all saw the remedy in process
of execution. Even Don Custodio himself turned to listen.
“Dig a canal straight from the source to the mouth of the river,
passing through Manila; that is, make a new river-channel and fill up
the old Pasig. That would save land, shorten communication, and prevent
the formation of sandbars.”
The project left all his hearers astounded, accustomed as they were to
palliative measures.
“It’s a Yankee plan!” observed Ben-Zayb, to ingratiate himself with
Simoun, who had spent a long time in North America.
All considered the plan wonderful and so indicated by the movements of
their heads. Only Don Custodio, the liberal Don Custodio, owing to his
independent position and his high offices, thought it his duty to
attack a project that did not emanate from himself—that was a
usurpation! He coughed, stroked the ends of his mustache, and with a
voice as important as though he were at a formal session of the
Ayuntamiento, said, “Excuse me, Señor Simoun, my respected friend, if I
should say that I am not of your opinion. It would cost a great deal of
money and might perhaps destroy some towns.”
“Then destroy them!” rejoined Simoun coldly.
“And the money to pay the laborers?”
“Don’t pay them! Use the prisoners and convicts!”
“But there aren’t enough, Señor Simoun!”