Inquirer January 25, 1999

Book Review / America’s Boy by James Hamilton Paterson

Being familiar with James Hamilton Paterson’s fiction (Ghosts of Manila and Griefwork) and non-fiction (Playing with Water), and liking his elegant British prose and insights on the Filipino psyche from many years of residence in these islands, I couldn’t wait to get a copy of his latest work, America’s Boy / The Marcoses and The Philippines, certain that he had something new to offer, or why would he bother.

To my great disappointment, the only thing new is that Paterson has revealed his true colors: loyalist and white, as in white trash, fiction posing as fact, as in whitewash, touching up the Marcos myths (he was no thief, he was rich to begin with; she isn’t mad, she’s an inspired subversive) and just in time, what a coincidence, for Imelda’s bombshell of an admission that they “owned practically everything” in her heyday and that she is poised to file a P500 billion lawsuit vs. bad Marcos cronies (greedy dummies) who refuse to surrender Marcos assets to the family.

The Filipino-history part is entertaining enough, in prose less elegant than sensational, quick and candid and ironic, bashing old and new ilustrados, bashing imperialist America, exposing Marcos and Imelda, with the juiciest inside stories, some of it old hat (Yamashita’s treasure), some of it new and intriguing (4000 tons of gold) if anonymous and dubious, but I give Paterson the benefit of the doubt (he must have done some research) because it’s all too interesting,indeed what if it’s all true.

But it’s not all true. The martial-law and EDSA parts are jolting, agitating, patently partial, barely researched. His earnest defense of the conjugal dictatorship and its excesses on grounds of cultural idiosyncrasies and American collusion raises my hackles, impossible to stay calm, to suspend disbelief, not when I know better, specially about the EDSA Revolution.

In defense of his view that Ferdinand Marcos was a heroic, if tragic, figure in the time of EDSA, Paterson cites the “extraordinary” moment on live television when Marcos denied Fabian Ver permission to bomb the rebel camp that was then surrounded by human barricades. “To many of those who knew and worked with him,” Paterson writes, “this is still regarded as Marcos’s finest hour. It was the moment when, no matter what orders he might have given in the past in the name of expediency, he refused to give the instinctive datu’s command that would have translated into wholesale slaughter.”

How romantic of Paterson, and how naïve, to fall for Marcos’s palabas. In fact, that extraordinary exchange was pure sarsuela, a (failed) ploy to scare the people away from EDSA, and, incidentally, a response to Pope John Paul II’s plea for a non-violent resolution of the conflict, and to the US Congress’s threat to cut off all economic and military aid to the Philippines should violence break out.

In fact, Marcos and Ver had long gone ballistic and given the kill-order but the Marines, led by General Artemio Tadiar (at EDSA/Ortigas on Day 2) and Colonel Braulio Balbas (in Camp Aguinaldo on Day 3), kept defying these orders. When Marcos had that exchange with Ver on nationwide TV, he was just being his wily old self, making the best of a bad situation by pretending to be the good guy (look, ma, no bloodshed), hoping to fool Washington D.C. and the Vatican, if not the Filipino people, a little while longer.

Paterson’s problem is, he swallows hook, line, and sinker the loyalist version of EDSA that blames the United States for Marcos’s fall. Marcos was America’s Boy, he says, only until Ninoy’s assassination, whereupon the Americans started to plot the dictator’s downfall and to make peace with the ilustrada widow Cory, setting off the chain of events that led to EDSA. He insists that the Americans planned the entire operation, all the way to the abduction of the Marcos gang and the flight to Hawaii. A story that has long been discredited.

Whatever the CIA was up to, the State Department was playing the situation by ear, being very careful how they dealt with Marcos because Ronald Reagan would brook no moves against his friend. In fact, the Americans were in no rush to replace Marcos until a more likely and desirable candidate other than an anti-bases housewife emerged. In fact, the Americans were as stunned as anyone by the display of People Power that forced Marcos out and moved Ramos and Enrile to give way to Cory (at what price, we should wonder). And in fact, the Americans did intervene, but only on Day 3 (the battle was practically won), and only to offer the Marcoses a way out of the Palace.

According to my research, Marcos could have made it to Paoay on his own whether on wheels or with wings: there were other escape routes available to him that Tuesday evening, Day 4. Carloads of security personnel bound for Clark Air Base were able to leave the Palace grounds undetected by the crowds outside; presidential choppers, pilots, and crews had been on stand-by since Monday morning, waiting to fly him anywhere he wished. Even rebel defense minister Juan Ponce Enrile had offered him safe passage out. But Marcos opted to trust the Americans instead, his fatal mistake.

JUSMAG General Teddy Allen had been ordered by US Ambassador Stephen Bosworth to take the Marcoses anywhere they wished. But Marcos informed Allen too late of the destination and Allen found out too late that the Ilocos airport had no lights for a night landing, thus the Marcos party was forced to spend the night in Clark. There, Marcos and Ver wasted no time working the phones, mustering support for an Ilocano army that would re-take Manila. Dismayed, his ministers tried to talk Marcos out of the scheme. Worse, one (possibly all) of them went farther and reported the matter to Enrile and Ramos who, in turn, relayed the news to, and impressed upon, Cory and Bosworth that Marcos should not be allowed to get to Paoay. “Nabigyan tiyak ng rallying point ang puwersang loyalista at pinag-agawán tiyak ang Maynila. Hindi kami makapayag na mangyari iyon habang pinapatatag pa namin ang puwersa ng gobyernong Aquino,” Ramos explained when I interviewed him in 1991.

Unfortunately for Marcos, People Power had by then wrought its magic, moving Reagan at last, as Enrile and RAM had been moved, to give way to and support Cory. At 2:30 a.m. Wednesday, the Marcos party was awakened and told to prepare for the flight to Guam. That — helping Marcos escape from the Palace and removing him from the country — was the extent of the Americans’ part in the February revolt.

Ninoy Aquino’s part was infinitely larger, equally so the people’s part, but Paterson shrugs them and EDSA off: “Substituting an oligarch for an autocrat was no kind of revolution.”

Indeed. But that is a verdict on what happened AFTER the revolution, when the elite had taken it over, and that is no reason to ignore EDSA.

To ignore EDSA is to miss out, as Paterson misses out, on core dimensions of the Filipino psyche—the revolutionary impulse, for one—and on a major sector of Filipino society, the silent middle-class masses, who made EDSA happen and who can make it happen again, given a similarly (hopefully better) informed and motivated environment.

Unfortunately Paterson’s book is out to intrigue rather than inform, which does not help the cause any. Worse, he’s stuck on Imelda, and that’s the most boring part of all.

Book Review: My Sad Republic by Eric Gamalinda, Centennial Literary Prize 1998, Best English Novel, U.P. Press, 2000

Sa loob at labas ng bayan cong saui,

caliluha, i, siya’ng nangyayaring hari.

Inside and outside of my sad country,

it is desolation that reigns supreme

Francisco Baltazar (1789-1862)

This treasure of a novel that won Eric Gamalinda a million bucks in the Centennial literary competition firmly establishes him as first among his peers writing in English.

Reading My Sad Republic is like reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, or is it Isabel Allende’s House of Spirits, the way Gamalinda’s knowing prose brings alive not only the factual but also the “fictitious” (legends, fables, rumors, gossip) as well as the ironic in the sad history of the people of Negros in the time of the Philippine revolution against Spain that segued into the Filipino-American War. A time of strange signs and visions, labyrinths and lacerated souls, miracles and heresies, death and desolation, along with some very hot sex (being also a passionate if deadly love-triangle) and a dash of friar erotica on the side, in the dying decades of friar rule.

The parish priest of a town too far from anything to matter was inserting a sacred host into the lips of a native girl’s vagina. The priest (let’s call him Padre Batchoy) was on his knees, a position he found necessary but uncomfortable, because he was not used to kneeling and his massive weight made his kneebones ache. He was naked as the tonsure on his head…

There’s more but it’s a minor, if delightfully scandalizing, sidelight (along with some marathon jungle sex) to the lead story of rich-girl-poor-boy who fall in love and might have run away and lived happily ever after had not a ruthless tisoy come between them.

Asuncion Madrigal, rich girl of One Hundred and Seventeen Names (her paranoid mother had her christened with all the names of the Holy Virgin to protect her from all evil), is tisay heiress to a sugarcane hacienda where poor boy Dionisio “Isio” Magbuela is a farmhand, a sugarcane cutter, but also a healer, a shaman and folk hero in the making, impossible to ignore, yet hardly husband material compared to Tomas Agustin, landowner, even if down-and-out.

Jealous of the young healer’s appeal to the Madrigal women (the grandmother taught the youth to read and write, the granddaughter taught him to play and touch) and desperate to marry Asuncion for her money Tomas Agustin takes matters (the Madrigals, actually) into his own hands, eventually driving Isio into the jungles and up a volcano in search of Utopia, but not before Asuncion and Isio manage to steal away for some great sex, in some beach, for some nine days, a novena of sorts for the intention of Agustin’s unborn conceived in rape.

He fell exhausted, weeping, and she did a strange thing; she lifted her head a little and bit the hard, firm muscle above his collarbone, gently, prolonging the gesture as though she wanted to remain connected with his body, infinitely.

Unlike Rizal’s virtuous Maria Clara, Gamalinda’s Asuncion has a wild streak (something for sinful Pinays to identify with) that Agustin fails to tame and Isio fails to inflame enough to sweep her away. Like her son Felipe, Asuncion is torn, the triangle holds, even as both men rise to high political positions – Agustin becomes General, Isio becomes Pope – and engage in brutal war no longer out of jealousy or for revenge but out of ambition and for the prize of a dream Americanista republic.

Agustin and other Landlords had been falling over themselves to convince the general that the island—this island, forget the rest of the archipelago—should be accepted as a member of the American federation. This island alone, spliced and excised from its Pacific nook, and grafted onto the marveloustree of the American union, there to flourish and flower in stately progress. That’s what it is, thought the general: yet another attempt to let me know why the United States should accept the new and improved Cantonal Republic of Negros, sugar and all.

Isio, Pope, Supreme Power of God’s Republic on Earth who threw the friars and the civil guards out, is no less seduced by the American dream. Sorrow in our land, sorrow in our history, sorrow the handmaid of our memory. Sorrow because of sugar, bitterness, poverty and misery. Sorrow because of Spain. But now the Spanish empire is dead, and the United States of America, the greatest nation on earth, has recognized our republic. Long live the United States!

Had the girl of a hundred seventeen names run away with the Pope instead, she would have been Popess, and, who knows, God’s Republic on Earth might have flowered some under her miraculous thumb. But there’s only so much that miracles can do. In the long run, she could not have prevented the Pope from being set up (as in a C.I.A. operation) and she could not have stopped arrogant America from declaring war on the Pope and taking the island by force in the name of pacification and benevolent assimilation. In the landscape of despair, everything was a miracle. Even America.

It is a rare novel in the Philippines that tells the story of the Filipino-American war as seen through the eyes not of victorious colonizers but of the vanquished people who suffered through it. Gamalinda tells the story exceedingly well in marvelous Pinoy English that is now as much a language of misery and sorrow as the native tongues that English “exorcised” a hundred years ago.

Every island, every town, every tribe must have its stories to tell of the pain and shame of that disgraceful passage from Spanish colonization to Americanization. Stories that bear telling and retelling, the sooner to dispell the clouds obscuring that critical turn in our history, the sooner to confront ourselves and learn from our miserable mistakes.

Until then, in our landscape of despair, we will continue to believe in miracles – the quick if wondrous fix, á la EDSA.

Book Review: The Tesseract by Alex Garland, Viking 1998, 226 pages

Judging from the mixed reviews that the British writer Alex Garland’s second novel is reaping, “The Tesseract” is not quite the sensational success that his debut bestseller “The Beach” was in ’96. But “The Tesseract” is no less (if not more) important (and sophisticated) a piece of writing, a must-read for thinking Filipinos, both as a dark cryptic thriller set in Manila and as a young white dude’s fictional-metaphorical abstract of the Filipino predicament in the image of a tesseract.

Garland’s tesseract is a three-dimensional crucifix, an unraveling into three dimensions (height, length, width) of an imaginary four-dimensional cube (or “hypercube”) that is beyond ordinary apprehension, much as the plot of “The Tesseract” is an unraveling into three-stories-that-collapse- into-one grippingly violent tale of life, love, and death in the Philippines that is beyond grasp unless viewed in the light of our colonial history (the fourth dimension is time), if we would only turn on the light and see.

But Garland doesn’t make it easy to see. He is such a tersely descriptive and engaged storyteller, it is easier to get caught up in the three synchronous stories unfolding and racing to and fro and crashing into each other, never mind the cryptic clues that dot the sometimes strange yet mostly familiar landscapes, never mind, even, the “hindi ba” for “hindi pa”.

The first story is Sean’s, a British sailor whose captain lost his life for refusing to pay protection money to the Filipino tyrant Don Pepe, the same Don Pepe he is to see in a few hours, minutes, seconds. He had hoped to meet in an Ermita bar, perhaps Penguin? but Don Pepe insisted he stay where he is, at Hotel Patay, in an abandoned district of Manila that has streets named Sakit, Sugat, Sayang. Rather than be killed – he knows what “Patay” means – Sean literally jumps the gun on the Don, pumps him with bullets, then runs for his life. Teroy and Jojo, bodyguard and driver, give chase, the first without a second thought, the last with some reluctance, remembering stories told him about Don Pepe who hated to be touched (off with the hands of anyone who dared) and who never sired a child for fear of diluting further the faintly mestizo blood now bubbling from his mouth. The chase takes them out of the deserted district into a slum area where Sean is baptized in an open sewer and emerges filthy and black, the object of curiousity of two streetkids cruising. Don Pepe’s men dog his tracks, the streetkids tailing them, all the way out of the slums into a middle-class neighborhood. Eventually the shit-covered foreigner loses steam and enters the yard of the nearest house where lives Rosa, a doctor.

The second story is Rosa’s, once a provincial beauty foolish enough to fall for Lito, a cute fisherman with a deformed torso, (“like a chocolate bar”). But her mother Corazon would have none of Lito, much less of a deformed grandchild, and would give up none of her dreams for Rosa, specially medical school that a rich uncle was eager to fund. The dutiful daughter, Rosa wrenched herself from Lito and Barrio Sarap, became a doctor, married Sonny, settled down in a Manila suburb, and had two children, Lita and Ralph. Ralph was just a baby when Rosa’s father, Doming, died. The funeral in Sarap was a nightmare. Separated from Sonny by the crowd, Rosa and her baby were confronted at the graveyard by spurned lover Lito who proceeded to transform Ralph into his image, chest eaten by acid, and then to wash and soothe the screaming baby as though he were the father. Like Doming who once survived a dynamite explosion and made it home on autopilot, Rosa and her family survived the pain of Ralph’s rebirth. Waiting now for Sonny, she remembers, and wonders still, what it was she was being saved from when she moved to Manila.

The third story is Vincente’s and Totoy’s, the streetkids tailing the chase. Cente came to Manila with his father five years ago. Within the day his father had disappeared, just never came back from an errand. For a year or so, Cente didn’t speak a word, mutely casing, and surviving, the streets. Until he met Totoy, also 13 but smaller, streetsmart in a sadder way, his mother a drug addict, whore, and pimp. Totoy won’t let her sell his body but he sells his dreams and fantasies, as Cente does, to Alfredo, a rich scholar doing research on Filipino street children, tracking their sleeping dreams over time. Cente is Alfredo’s star dreamer, his dreams startling, his notions of self (“I’m just me.”) unsettling, and his questions about hell and paradise (pricked by an Irish priest’s soup-kitchen lectures) confounding. As confounding as Alfredo’s wife jumping from their penthouse balcony.

On this night, Cente and Totoy are on U.N. Avenue, playing war games. Armed with “grenades” (a handful of rusty nails) Totoy zeroes in on a passing Honda saloon and “disables” the “enemy tank”. A good choice, they agree, as they take note of the driver speaking to a cellphone: apparently a family man on the way home to his loved ones. Then they run for their lives, and continue to run for the sake of running, until they’ve run so far they find themselves in an unfamiliar district, strangely abandoned, just in time to hear gunshots. The two boys home in on the action, out of the wasteland into the slums nearby where their path crosses the dirty foreigner’s. It is Cente who decides to go on. It’s all too close to his recurrent dream of a running man (his father maybe?) that always stops short of identification and resolution. This running man’s story he would see through to the end. As violently as it began in Hotel Patay the story ends in Rosa’s kitchen with Corazon caught in the crossfire, Teroy emptying his gun into Sean, and Rosa in shock. It’s familiar territory, she’s been here before, in “the aftermath of dynamite”, but she hears her frightened children calling and she snaps to autopilot. Sonny, as usual, arrives too late on the scene. But not too late for Cente and Totoy who recognize the enemy tank. `We’d better go,’ said Totoy quietly as the Honda driver ran past. ‘Rosa?’ yelled the driver. ‘What the hell is going on?’ ‘We’d better,’ Vincente agreed. As they hit the street, they heard a woman’s voice behind them and the driver’s sudden gasp of alarm. ‘God!’ he exclaimed, as if his faith had been punched out of his body. Totoy looked back over his shoulder and Vincente didn’t.

In a sense, the critics are right. It would seem that Garland barely manages to tie the three stories together. It would seem that only the chase connects them and there’s nothing for Cente to get but a sense of figuring unwittingly in a bloody affair. There is nothing for Rosa but the inescapable pattern of violence in her most private life, in Manila or in Sarap. There was nothing for Sean but death — he may as well have died in Hotel Patay.

In another sense, the critics are wrong. There is more to “The Tesseract”. Look beyond the storyline and turn on to the Black Dog. The black dog running in a red mist on the cover. The black dog running through titles: “Black Dog” for Sean’s story, which is also the book’s first chapter. “Black Dog Is Coming” for Rosa’s, midway into the book. And “Black Dog Is Here” for Vincente’s. And what seemed minor and unrelated elements – the black dog (as omen of death) and the red mist (of violent madness) – suddenly connect and throb with meaning. Black is white and white is black. The Black Dog in our lives, the omen of death, is the white man Sean gone mad, killing Filipinos by mistake (Don Pepe wasn’t out to kill him, but to offer him a job) and then running for his life. Unhappily for the white man, he runs out of bullets (or is it, his gun proves useless after falling into the sewer with him?) and the Filipinos prove indefatigable, dog him to the end, and waste him. Happy ending, sort of. Infinitely better than if the white-man-turned-black got away with it.

The question is, does the resolution have to be so violent? Will Rosa never have peace? Amazingly enough, Garland has an answer if you’re looking. Rewind to the “wasteground”, the abandoned district of Manila, site of Hotel Patay and streets named Sugat, Sakit, Sayang, which freaked out Sean and led him to kill, and which spooked the streetkids who were surprised to find themselves lost in Manila.

“…It was confusing to have stumbled across such uninhabited desolation in Manila. Not that desolation was a rarity, but you would find people living in it. Equally confusing, it was clear that the area had once – perhaps even recently – been full of life. The evidence was everywhere, in filth-blackened shop-fronts, peeling fly-posters and busted neon signs. Moreover, peering inside the buildings, bizarre details appeared. Through broken windows, restaurant tables with placemats and beer bottles could be dimly made out. One derelict bar even had a juke-box. It lay on its side, dusty but apparently intact, surrounded by crumpled drink-cans and torn newspaper, like a Japanese treasure chest in a sea of cursed banknotes. It was hard to imagine why such reusable and recyclable assets had been abandoned, rather than expertly stripped. It seemed as if, in the space of one bad hour, the night-life had been chased away.”

There is no such place in Manila, except possibly in a fourth dimension of Garland’s imagination, where past and future fold into the present, as in a science-fiction kind of time-warp zone, and where appearances are deceptive – grim setting for ritual encounters with the white man. To break through the time-barrier, you run, fast as the Black Dog running for his life, fast as Vincente and Totoy running for the sake of running, running as meditation. “They fell into a compromise rhythm that took into account the differences in their sizes and length of stride. While they were running, a roughly equal distance was maintained between their shoulders – or, for that matter, any chosen point on their bodies. Every time one of them looked to the side, he saw his friend in the same space he had been occupying before. In fact, relative to each other’s position, the two boys barely moved at all. But around them, the neighbourhood changed.”

Imagine the strange neighborhood as part of a four-dimensional Manila, Manila as a hypercube, impossible to grasp. Garland’s story begins in such a center and then streaks out in linear fashion, unraveling into real-time, crashing straight into Rosa’s life at the foot of the tesseract that is a three- dimensional crucifix. Fittingly (and ironically) enough, the story’s final spoken word is from the man of the house (Sonny-come-lately). “‘God!’ he exclaimed, as if his faith had been punched out of his body”.

The white man is the cross we bear. How much longer? Who knows, but Garland is saying it can be resolved in real time, in the hell of a world of Sonny and Rosa,though I would think only with deliberate effort on the part of every Sonny and Rosa to get their act together in a common cause.

Fancy gaining such insights from a white dude of 28, young enough to be my son. Perhaps there is something to look forward to, after all, from Generation X.