The Reign of Greed
“Then, if there aren’t enough, let all the villagers, the old men, the
youths, the boys, work. Instead of the fifteen days of obligatory
service, let them work three, four, five months for the State, with the
additional obligation that each one provide his own food and tools.”
The startled Don Custodio turned his head to see if there was any
Indian within ear-shot, but fortunately those nearby were rustics, and
the two helmsmen seemed to be very much occupied with the windings of
the river.
“But, Señor Simoun—”
“Don’t fool yourself, Don Custodio,” continued Simoun dryly, “only in
this way are great enterprises carried out with small means. Thus were
constructed the Pyramids, Lake Moeris, and the Colosseum in Rome.
Entire provinces came in from the desert, bringing their tubers to feed
on. Old men, youths, and boys labored in transporting stones, hewing
them, and carrying them on their shoulders under the direction of the
official lash, and afterwards, the survivors returned to their homes or
perished in the sands of the desert. Then came other provinces, then
others, succeeding one another in the work during years. Thus the task
was finished, and now we admire them, we travel, we go to Egypt and to
Home, we extol the Pharaohs and the Antonines. Don’t fool yourself—the
dead remain dead, and might only is considered right by posterity.”
“But, Señor Simoun, such measures might provoke uprisings,” objected
Don Custodio, rather uneasy over the turn the affair had taken.
“Uprisings, ha, ha! Did the Egyptian people ever rebel, I wonder? Did
the Jewish prisoners rebel against the pious Titus? Man, I thought you
were better informed in history!”
Clearly Simoun was either very presumptuous or disregarded
conventionalities! To say to Don Custodio’s face that he did not know
history! It was enough to make any one lose his temper! So it seemed,
for Don Custodio forgot himself and retorted, “But the fact is that
you’re not among Egyptians or Jews!”
“And these people have rebelled more than once,” added the Dominican,
somewhat timidly. “In the times when they were forced to transport
heavy timbers for the construction of ships, if it hadn’t been for the
clerics—”
“Those times are far away,” answered Simoun, with a laugh even drier
than usual. “These islands will never again rebel, no matter how much
work and taxes they have. Haven’t you lauded to me, Padre Salvi,” he
added, turning to the Franciscan, “the house and hospital at Los Baños,
where his Excellency is at present?”
Padre Salvi gave a nod and looked up, evading the question.
“Well, didn’t you tell me that both buildings were constructed by
forcing the people to work on them under the whip of a lay-brother?
Perhaps that wonderful bridge was built in the same way. Now tell me,
did these people rebel?”
“The fact is—they have rebelled before,” replied the Dominican, “and ab
actu ad posse valet illatio!”
“No, no, nothing of the kind,” continued Simoun, starting down a
hatchway to the cabin. “What’s said, is said! And you, Padre Sibyla,
don’t talk either Latin or nonsense. What are you friars good for if
the people can rebel?”
Taking no notice of the replies and protests, Simoun descended the
small companionway that led below, repeating disdainfully, “Bosh,
bosh!”
Padre Sibyla turned pale; this was the first time that he, Vice-Rector
of the University, had ever been credited with nonsense. Don Custodio
turned green; at no meeting in which he had ever found himself had he
encountered such an adversary.
“An American mulatto!” he fumed.
“A British Indian,” observed Ben-Zayb in a low tone.
“An American, I tell you, and shouldn’t I know?” retorted Don Custodio
in ill-humor. “His Excellency has told me so. He’s a jeweler whom the
latter knew in Havana, and, as I suspect, the one who got him
advancement by lending him money. So to repay him he has had him come
here to let him have a chance and increase his fortune by selling
diamonds—imitations, who knows? And he’s so ungrateful, that, after
getting money from the Indians, he wishes—huh!” The sentence was
concluded by a significant wave of the hand.
No one dared to join in this diatribe. Don Custodio could discredit
himself with his Excellency, if he wished, but neither Ben-Zayb, nor
Padre Irene, nor Padre Salvi, nor the offended Padre Sibyla had any
confidence in the discretion of the others.
“The fact is that this man, being an American, thinks no doubt that we
are dealing with the redskins. To talk of these matters on a steamer!
Compel, force the people! And he’s the very person who advised the
expedition to the Carolines and the campaign in Mindanao, which is
going to bring us to disgraceful ruin. He’s the one who has offered to
superintend the building of the cruiser, and I say, what does a
jeweler, no matter how rich and learned he may be, know about naval
construction?”
All this was spoken by Don Custodio in a guttural tone to his neighbor
Ben-Zayb, while he gesticulated, shrugged his shoulders, and from time
to time with his looks consulted the others, who were nodding their
heads ambiguously. The Canon Irene indulged in a rather equivocal
smile, which he half hid with his hand as he rubbed his nose.
“I tell you, Ben-Zayb,” continued Don Custodio, slapping the journalist
on the arm, “all the trouble comes from not consulting the old-timers
here. A project in fine words, and especially with a big appropriation,
with an appropriation in round numbers, dazzles, meets with acceptance
at once, for this!” Here, in further explanation, he rubbed the tip of
his thumb against his middle and forefinger. [4]
“There’s something in that, there’s something in that,” Ben-Zayb
thought it his duty to remark, since in his capacity of journalist he
had to be informed about everything.
“Now look here, before the port works I presented a project, original,
simple, useful, economical, and practicable, for clearing away the bar
in the lake, and it hasn’t been accepted because there wasn’t any of
that in it.” He repeated the movement of his fingers, shrugged his
shoulders, and gazed at the others as though to say, “Have you ever
heard of such a misfortune?”
“May we know what it was?” asked several, drawing nearer and giving him
their attention. The projects of Don Custodio were as renowned as
quacks’ specifics.
Don Custodio was on the point of refusing to explain it from resentment
at not having found any supporters in his diatribe against Simoun.
“When there’s no danger, you want me to talk, eh? And when there is,
you keep quiet!” he was going to say, but that would cause the loss of
a good opportunity, and his project, now that it could not be carried
out, might at least be known and admired.
After blowing out two or three puffs of smoke, coughing, and spitting
through a scupper, he slapped Ben-Zayb on the thigh and asked, “You’ve
seen ducks?”
“I rather think so—we’ve hunted them on the lake,” answered the
surprised journalist.
“No, I’m not talking about wild ducks, I’m talking of the domestic
ones, of those that are raised in Pateros and Pasig. Do you know what
they feed on?”
Ben-Zayb, the only thinking head, did not know—he was not engaged in
that business.
“On snails, man, on snails!” exclaimed Padre Camorra. “One doesn’t have
to be an Indian to know that; it’s sufficient to have eyes!”
“Exactly so, on snails!” repeated Don Custodio, flourishing his
forefinger. “And do you know where they get them?”
Again the thinking head did not know.
“Well, if you had been in the country as many years as I have, you
would know that they fish them out of the bar itself, where they
abound, mixed with the sand.”
“Then your project?”
“Well, I’m coming to that. My idea was to compel all the towns round
about, near the bar, to raise ducks, and you’ll see how they, all by
themselves, will deepen the channel by fishing for the snails—no more
and no less, no more and no less!”
Here Don Custodio extended his arms and gazed triumphantly at the
stupefaction of his hearers—to none of them had occurred such an
original idea.
“Will you allow me to write an article about that?” asked Ben-Zayb. “In
this country there is so little thinking done—”
“But, Don Custodio,” exclaimed Doña Victorina with smirks and grimaces,
“if everybody takes to raising ducks the balot [5] eggs will become
abundant. Ugh, how nasty! Rather, let the bar close up entirely!”
CHAPTER II
ON THE LOWER DECK
There, below, other scenes were being enacted. Seated on benches or
small wooden stools among valises, boxes, and baskets, a few feet from
the engines, in the heat of the boilers, amid the human smells and the
pestilential odor of oil, were to be seen the great majority of the
passengers. Some were silently gazing at the changing scenes along the
banks, others were playing cards or conversing in the midst of the
scraping of shovels, the roar of the engine, the hiss of escaping
steam, the swash of disturbed waters, and the shrieks of the whistle.
In one corner, heaped up like corpses, slept, or tried to sleep, a
number of Chinese pedlers, seasick, pale, frothing through half-opened
lips, and bathed in their copious perspiration. Only a few youths,
students for the most part, easily recognizable from their white
garments and their confident bearing, made bold to move about from
stern to bow, leaping over baskets and boxes, happy in the prospect of
the approaching vacation. Now they commented on the movements of the
engines, endeavoring to recall forgotten notions of physics, now they
surrounded the young schoolgirl or the red-lipped buyera with her
collar of sampaguitas, whispering into their ears words that made them
smile and cover their faces with their fans.
Nevertheless, two of them, instead of engaging in these fleeting
gallantries, stood in the bow talking with a man, advanced in years,
but still vigorous and erect. Both these youths seemed to be well known
and respected, to judge from the deference shown them by their fellow
passengers. The elder, who was dressed in complete black, was the
medical student, Basilio, famous for his successful cures and
extraordinary treatments, while the other, taller and more robust,
although much younger, was Isagani, one of the poets, or at least
rimesters, who that year came from the Ateneo, [6] a curious character,
ordinarily quite taciturn and uncommunicative. The man talking with
them was the rich Capitan Basilio, who was returning from a business
trip to Manila.
“Capitan Tiago is getting along about the same as usual, yes, sir,”
said the student Basilio, shaking his head. “He won’t submit to any
treatment. At the advice of a certain person he is sending me to San
Diego under the pretext of looking after his property, but in reality
so that he may be left to smoke his opium with complete liberty.”
When the student said a certain person, he really meant Padre Irene, a
great friend and adviser of Capitan Tiago in his last days.
“Opium is one of the plagues of modern times,” replied the capitan with
the disdain and indignation of a Roman senator. “The ancients knew
about it but never abused it. While the addiction to classical studies
lasted—mark this well, young men—opium was used solely as a medicine;
and besides, tell me who smoke it the most?—Chinamen, Chinamen who
don’t understand a word of Latin! Ah, if Capitan Tiago had only devoted
himself to Cicero—” Here the most classical disgust painted itself on
his carefully-shaven Epicurean face. Isagani regarded him with
attention: that gentleman was suffering from nostalgia for antiquity.
“But to get back to this academy of Castilian,” Capitan Basilio
continued, “I assure you, gentlemen, that you won’t materialize it.”