The Reign of Greed
panguingui where the stake is a half peso, I Ve gone only where it’s a
half real, enduring the bad smells and the dirty cards. Look at my
patched camisa; for instead of buying new ones I’ve spent the money in
masses and presents to St. Sebastian, even though I don’t have great
confidence in his power, because the curate recites the masses fast and
hurriedly, he’s an entirely new saint and doesn’t yet know how to
perform miracles, and isn’t made of batikulin but of lanete. Ay, what
will your father say to me when I die and see him again!”
So the poor woman lamented and wept, while Placido became gloomier and
let stifled sighs escape from his breast.
“What would I get out of being a lawyer?” was his response.
“What will become of you?” asked his mother, clasping her hands.
“They’ll call you a filibuster and garrote you. I’ve told you that you
must have patience, that you must be humble. I don’t tell you that you
must kiss the hands of the curates, for I know that you have a delicate
sense of smell, like your father, who couldn’t endure European cheese.
[41] But we have to suffer, to be silent, to say yes to everything.
What are we going to do? The friars own everything, and if they are
unwilling, no one will become a lawyer or a doctor. Have patience, my
son, have patience!”
“But I’ve had a great deal, mother, I’ve suffered for months and
months.”
Cabesang Andang then resumed her lamentations. She did not ask that he
declare himself a partizan of the friars, she was not one herself—it
was enough to know that for one good friar there were ten bad, who took
the money from the poor and deported the rich. But one must be silent,
suffer, and endure—there was no other course. She cited this man and
that one, who by being patient and humble, even though in the bottom of
his heart he hated his masters, had risen from servant of the friars to
high office; and such another who was rich and could commit abuses,
secure of having patrons who would protect him from the law, yet who
had been nothing more than a poor sacristan, humble and obedient, and
who had married a pretty girl whose son had the curate for a godfather.
So Cabesang Andang continued her litany of humble and patient
Filipinos, as she called them, and was about to cite others who by not
being so had found themselves persecuted and exiled, when Placido on
some trifling pretext left the house to wander about the streets.
He passed through Sibakong, [42] Tondo, San Nicolas, and Santo Cristo,
absorbed in his ill-humor, without taking note of the sun or the hour,
and only when he began to feel hungry and discovered that he had no
money, having given it all for celebrations and contributions, did he
return to the house. He had expected that he would not meet his mother
there, as she was in the habit, when in Manila, of going out at that
hour to a neighboring house where panguingui was played, but Cabesang
Andang was waiting to propose her plan. She would avail herself of the
procurator of the Augustinians to restore her son to the good graces of
the Dominicans.
Placido stopped her with a gesture. “I’ll throw myself into the sea
first,” he declared. “I’ll become a tulisan before I’ll go back to the
University.”
Again his mother began her preachment about patience and humility, so
he went away again without having eaten anything, directing his steps
toward the quay where the steamers tied up. The sight of a steamer
weighing anchor for Hongkong inspired him with an idea—to go to
Hongkong, to run away, get rich there, and make war on the friars.
The thought of Hongkong awoke in his mind the recollection of a story
about frontals, cirials, and candelabra of pure silver, which the piety
of the faithful had led them to present to a certain church. The
friars, so the silversmith told, had sent to Hongkong to have duplicate
frontals, cirials, and candelabra made of German silver, which they
substituted for the genuine ones, these being melted down and coined
into Mexican pesos. Such was the story he had heard, and though it was
no more than a rumor or a story, his resentment gave it the color of
truth and reminded him of other tricks of theirs in that same style.
The desire to live free, and certain half-formed plans, led him to
decide upon Hongkong. If the corporations sent all their money there,
commerce must be flourishing and he could enrich himself.
“I want to be free, to live free!”
Night surprised him wandering along San Fernando, but not meeting any
sailor he knew, he decided to return home. As the night was beautiful,
with a brilliant moon transforming the squalid city into a fantastic
fairy kingdom, he went to the fair. There he wandered back and forth,
passing booths without taking any notice of the articles in them, ever
with the thought of Hongkong, of living free, of enriching himself.
He was about to leave the fair when he thought he recognized the
jeweler Simoun bidding good-by to a foreigner, both of them speaking in
English. To Placido every language spoken in the Philippines by
Europeans, when not Spanish, had to be English, and besides, he caught
the name Hongkong. If only the jeweler would recommend him to that
foreigner, who must be setting out for Hongkong!
Placido paused. He was acquainted with the jeweler, as the latter had
been in his town peddling his wares, and he had accompanied him on one
of his trips, when Simoun had made himself very amiable indeed, telling
him of the life in the universities of the free countries—what a
difference!
So he followed the jeweler. “Señor Simoun, Señor Simoun!” he called.
The jeweler was at that moment entering his carriage. Recognizing
Placido, he checked himself.
“I want to ask a favor of you, to say a few words to you.”
Simoun made a sign of impatience which Placido in his perturbation did
not observe. In a few words the youth related what had happened and
made known his desire to go to Hongkong.
“Why?” asked Simoun, staring fixedly at Placido through his blue
goggles.
Placido did not answer, so Simoun threw back his head, smiled his cold,
silent smile and said, “All right! Come with me. To Calle Iris!” he
directed the cochero.
Simoun remained silent throughout the whole drive, apparently absorbed
in meditation of a very important nature. Placido kept quiet, waiting
for him to speak first, and entertained himself in watching the
promenaders who were enjoying the clear moonlight: pairs of infatuated
lovers, followed by watchful mammas or aunts; groups of students in
white clothes that the moonlight made whiter still; half-drunken
soldiers in a carriage, six together, on their way to visit some nipa
temple dedicated to Cytherea; children playing their games and Chinese
selling sugar-cane. All these filled the streets, taking on in the
brilliant moonlight fantastic forms and ideal outlines. In one house an
orchestra was playing waltzes, and couples might be seen dancing under
the bright lamps and chandeliers—what a sordid spectacle they presented
in comparison with the sight the streets afforded! Thinking of
Hongkong, he asked himself if the moonlit nights in that island were so
poetical and sweetly melancholy as those of the Philippines, and a deep
sadness settled down over his heart.
Simoun ordered the carriage to stop and both alighted, just at the
moment when Isagani and Paulita Gomez passed them murmuring sweet
inanities. Behind them came Doña Victorina with Juanito Pelaez, who was
talking in a loud voice, busily gesticulating, and appearing to have a
larger hump than ever. In his preoccupation Pelaez did not notice his
former schoolmate.
“There’s a fellow who’s happy!” muttered Placido with a sigh, as he
gazed toward the group, which became converted into vaporous
silhouettes, with Juanito’s arms plainly visible, rising and falling
like the arms of a windmill.
“That’s all he’s good for,” observed Simoun. “It’s fine to be young!”
To whom did Placido and Simoun each allude?
The jeweler made a sign to the young man, and they left the street to
pick their way through a labyrinth of paths and passageways among
various houses, at times leaping upon stones to avoid the mudholes or
stepping aside from the sidewalks that were badly constructed and still
more badly tended. Placido was surprised to see the rich jeweler move
through such places as if he were familiar with them. They at length
reached an open lot where a wretched hut stood off by itself surrounded
by banana-plants and areca-palms. Some bamboo frames and sections of
the same material led Placido to suspect that they were approaching the
house of a pyrotechnist.
Simoun rapped on the window and a man’s face appeared.
“Ah, sir!” he exclaimed, and immediately came outside.
“Is the powder here?” asked Simoun.
“In sacks. I’m waiting for the shells.”
“And the bombs?”
“Are all ready.”
“All right, then. This very night you must go and inform the lieutenant
and the corporal. Then keep on your way, and in Lamayan you will find a
man in a banka. You will say Cabesa and he will answer Tales. It’s
necessary that he be here tomorrow. There’s no time to be lost.”
Saying this, he gave him some gold coins.
“How’s this, sir?” the man inquired in very good Spanish. “Is there any
news?”
“Yes, it’ll be done within the coming week.”
“The coming week!” exclaimed the unknown, stepping backward. “The
suburbs are not yet ready, they hope that the General will withdraw the
decree. I thought it was postponed until the beginning of Lent.”
Simoun shook his head. “We won’t need the suburbs,” he said. “With
Cabesang Tales’ people, the ex-carbineers, and a regiment, we’ll have
enough. Later, Maria Clara may be dead. Start at once!”
The man disappeared. Placido, who had stood by and heard all of this
brief interview, felt his hair rise and stared with startled eyes at
Simoun, who smiled.
“You’re surprised,” he said with his icy smile, “that this Indian, so
poorly dressed, speaks Spanish well? He was a schoolmaster who
persisted in teaching Spanish to the children and did not stop until he
had lost his position and had been deported as a disturber of the
public peace, and for having been a friend of the unfortunate Ibarra. I
got him back from his deportation, where he had been working as a
pruner of coconut-palms, and have made him a pyrotechnist.”
They returned to the street and set out for Trozo. Before a wooden
house of pleasant and well-kept appearance was a Spaniard on crutches,
enjoying the moonlight. When Simoun accosted him, his attempt to rise
was accompanied by a stifled groan.
“You’re ready?” Simoun inquired of him.
“I always am!”
“The coming week?”
“So soon?”
“At the first cannon-shot!”
He moved away, followed by Placido, who was beginning to ask himself if
he were not dreaming.
“Does it surprise you,” Simoun asked him, “to see a Spaniard so young
and so afflicted with disease? Two years ago he was as robust as you
are, but his enemies succeeded in sending him to Balabak to work in a
penal settlement, and there he caught the rheumatism and fever that are
dragging him into the grave. The poor devil had married a very
beautiful woman.”
As an empty carriage was passing, Simoun hailed it and with Placido
directed it to his house in the Escolta, just at the moment when the
clocks were striking half-past ten.
Two hours later Placido left the jeweler’s house and walked gravely and
thoughtfully along the Escolta, then almost deserted, in spite of the
fact that the cafés were still quite animated. Now and then a carriage
passed rapidly, clattering noisily over the worn pavement.
From a room in his house that overlooked the Pasig, Simoun turned his
gaze toward the Walled City, which could be seen through the open