The father invited us to get inside the house, but we decided to just stay and wait outside. Tony Boy was still asleep when we arrived. He called on to his wife to wake Tony Boy up, and the lady silently walked inside one of the rooms. He said his son consumed all that was left of the kerosene on the wicker that they are using, for staying up the whole night, reading a stupid book. He said he went to check him in his room at around four o’clock in the morning only to find him, still reading the whole nonsense.
Albert told him that Tony Boy had waked up. That he saw him sitting by the window when we arrived. But the father insisted he has never come out of his room. I told Albert he was only imagining things. He turned to the spot in the window where he claimed to have seen Tony Boy, frowning and unconvinced but never insisted on the matter anymore.
Tony boy appeared on the doorway, rubbing his eyes. He was still wearing the same clothes he wore the day before. From the way he looked, he had obviously just waked up from a short interrupted sleep. The face was swelling and I could see the red sleepy eyes wrinkle before the bright morning sunlight. At the sight of him, Albert turned away and hurried for the kariton. He never bothered asking permission to go from the father. He always hated Tony Boy’s father for the way he treated his son. If there were anyone among us who showed insurmountable concern to any one of us, it would be Albert. He can clearly distinguish the good from the bad. For him, nothing comes in between. He always took his side.
As we were leaving, the father called out from the veranda. He reminded his son of the wick, and that he should be going home with enough money for the kerosene. We rolled off, ignoring the father. Tony Boy knew how Albert had been ailing to leave.
Albert and I took control of the kariton on the way, with Tony Boy, walking behind us. Soon, Albert started complaining to Tony Boy about his father’s attitude. I heard no attempt from him in defense of his father. Soon he took over Albert’s place on the handle. They took turns in yelling ‘bote-diaryo.’ Then Albert started talking about the kariton and us. All the while, I would just laugh, or make funny remarks.
Tony Boy was half listening. His eyes wandered at everything and everyone that we passed by or come across with on the way, things which, only I would usually do. I noticed his silence but, when I asked him if there was something that was bothering him, he only smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Albert told him that that was what he got for staying up overnight, reading. He mocked about Tony Boy’s eyes almost popping out.
"So how was the book? Your father said you gave it the whole night."
He shrugged and sighed, looking at neither the two of us looking at him. It was a little strange how he was behaving so oddly since we left the house. He said he was done reading the book. He said nothing more.
We rolled off from one neighborhood to another. Going to places we have not gone for quite some time. In one of the sari-sari stores that we passed by, I heard people talking about the morning news, particularly about the snap elections. They were talking about the death of a senator. I did not give it so much of my attention. I was thinking of rolling by the street where that house I went to the other day was located. I told them about going to the place, but Albert already had a planned route for the day. We would be taking the east bank on the opposite side of the river, which, was quite far from the area surrounding the cathedral and the city government building on the west.
Hours passed and we were already orbiting the route. We have come across some two kariton boys, each with their own kariton. The first one, we come across with after crossing the bridge. He had already collected a few bottles and metal scraps on his cart. This one we do not know, though he looked familiar.
We could have just walked past him, passed him by after a few exchange of words, but Albert was in the right mood for talking. Albert practically befriends everybody when the right mood sets in.
But besides the fact about Albert, it has become a common practice among the peddlers on the street to create ties among themselves. A simple smile that goes with a nod, or a little exchange of words would be enough to prove one’s close association with his kind. It’s the alliance of the street. To some extent, in a city where the street lurks a threat of the untoward, and the quiet pavements hide the curse of the unexpected, it was good to have someone reminding us of the surrogate brothers of our fate, a living remembrance of the life that has long been thrown to waste. It brings a certain degree of security to know that somewhere, under the same clouds, there’s a magnitude of souls. Doing the very same things we do, walking the same direction that we are going to, and would always find us in the dark alleys that our feet may lead us to, because deep within us we know that we share the same freedom in fear.
No man can better show sympathy to the fears and sorrows of another, than that man who go through the very same things that the other is going through, and the things that both of them are bound fall into. To take the street as a way of life, during these times of turmoil, is a bite at the bitter reality that the street leads to an easy passage that gives no assurance of walking back and taking the same way again. There had been a lot who have never come back.
To those who called the streets their home, they hold the secret of every grass growing tall with the last stroke of sunset of every passing day, and dying at the kiss of sunrise. They see with their eyes and hear with their ears the clear reflection of their spirits, dancing with freedom, floating above the dark empty rows during the forbidden hours of the night, but with voices wailing like crying sirens making the music of the cold night. They have managed to wake up every morning even with death on their side watching over them through the night.
It was foolish to speak of competition with the trade. To someone whose heart belonged to the street, he knows for a fact that competition can never measure up to surviving the secret of every flower growing astray on the sidewalks of Zaragoza. Surely, as every man breathing life from the different corners and curves of the street is aware of the real undertakings of the midnight regime. More than the competition, more than the fear for one’s life itself, they fear for every little secret they hide. Things they wish they never knew. Their silence harbored the missing pieces of a puzzle that would complete the picture of the unspoken yet widely heard of brutality of the beastly executions that plagued the entire place. From these secrets that they kept are the screaming images of names and faces that had vanished at the height of their existence.
This is the reason why, somehow, behind the fraternal affinity, one would always find the necessity of maintaining his distance. Every single person that he comes across with on the streets of this city would opt to remain blind and deaf to the gazing eyes and the echoing silence that is apparent to every stranger on the way. Because even as words would come between them, the walls that divided their tongue from their mind is evident, so that whatever secrets every one of them are hiding, will remain captive, locked in the dark corners of their minds for their tongues to speak with hope of finding exile in the innocence and escape the lethal whispers of their own consciousness.
There was an apparent discomfort and a perceptible feeling of resolute reluctance that goes with the conversation. Even as Albert spoke a lot in the course of speaking the plain and simple language of the trade, there was no unity in his words, and had remained hollow to his kind intentions. The young man, about my age, never spared a moment to look at us straight in the eyes. Trembling airs of suspicion filled the gaps coming between dialogues when the only thing that we talked about was the places that both him and us had been to and where there are more scraps to collect. We were united in our presence but were elusive in spirit.
The second one, we come across with passing by a public high school, one of the three public high schools in Zaragoza. This one we know from the place where Victor comes from. He was one of those kids who used to just watch us from his kariton when he pass us by while we were swimming on the river Sol when we were still little kids. He was one of Victor’s neighborhood friends and one who helped us build the kariton. He started early with the collection and had almost never experienced the fun of playing as a child. It was, somehow a little inspiring to see him finally gotten over with collecting scraps. The old and greasy kariton that he used to take along with him wherever he went, has transformed into a better looking rolling cart with newly painted red and white stripes for selling fish balls. It looked new and he seemed very proud of it. He was situated directly outside the school entrance, a perfect spot among the crowd of praying vendors, waiting for school dismissal, to attract a swarm of school kids on their way home.
He spoke to us about how he obtained his new business, talking about his father, winning the consolation prize money from a sweepstakes ticket. He spoke to us about how, before he won, his father spared the money, which was supposed to be intended for their food, to buy tickets for the sweepstakes instead. He said it happened all the time, since he was a little boy. Now he was relating to us the story, as if all the years of going to sleep with empty stomachs had paid off and well worth the consolation prize of a ticket. He shared to us his vivid account of that particular day and the first and only time they went to Super with his three bothers and one sister, including their mother. He spoke to us about how they had a feast of delicious food for a day, and going to sleep with bloated stomachs, like that was the end of the world.
To top it all, he woke up the following day, and his father, never more concerned about his children, asked him what he wanted, as he was the only remaining child who does not own something new yet from their trip to Super. That was the time he revealed to his father his plan of asking an amount that he may use as capital to start up a new business of peddling fish balls. He said he was surprised that his father did not ask for further explanations. He had prepared himself in case he would ask, but he didn’t hear anything more than a bursting laughter from the father while slowly digging into his deep pockets. Right then, he got what he had always wished for.
He said he was never more happier, that when he left to buy everything that he needed, including all the materials for the reconstruction of his kariton, coming home late in the afternoon, he did not mind that his father had spent all that was left of his money for drinking and gambling.
His enthusiasm faded when he said that things had returned to the way it always was in the house, and nothing has changed like nothing happened. Nevertheless, there was a relief when he started wiping off every little traces of stains on his utensils with a damp cloth. As he puts it, money goes as it comes easily.
All the while, while I was paying full attention to him talking with fondness, Tony Boy had moved, sitting on the edge of the kariton, pondering over the view of the rooms on the school building. Albert was circling the cart, his fingers running through the smooth surfaces of the painted parts, like contemplating on getting one himself.
As we were leaving, he told us of a fire incident that burned down a number of houses the night before. He said he thought we might be interested in going to the place. He then gave us a stick with three fish balls apiece. But Albert was quick to confiscate all of it.
I was about to take a bite, but he left us with no other choice. He said we should better be saving it for out lunch and placed it immediately inside a cellophane bag. We thanked him for saving our lunch and he smiled, saying that was all he could offer. He pointed the way going to the direction of the incident, and we left, hurrying on the way.
When we finally found the site, there had been about five kariton standing by, lining up on the side of the road, around the area of the fire. There were a lot of onlookers on the street. Some were roaming the area, mostly kariton boys searching for sellable wastes that were left of the fire that brought down the entire place. We’ve seen a lot of kariton boys we know, and there were some that if not familiar looking, I suppose were new to the scavenging business. Like the usual, Albert and Tony Boy went, along with some kariton boys to search for scraps, while I remained watching over the cart. I stayed there watching them go through the smoldering remains of the fire, the crumbling black embers that colored their hands and feet with dark stains, while listening to the conversations of people watching the catastrophic spectacle of the day.
From the latter I learned that the fire started at about two o’clock in the morning, starting from the candle factory. I was instantly reminded of Victor’s brothers. I know they worked in a candle factory but I don’t know which of the many candle factories in Zaragoza. I asked a middle-aged lady standing next to me if she there was any casualty and that if there was anybody who was trapped in the fire. She said, none that she knew of from what she had heard. She was quick to ask me if I knew of somebody who was trapped in the fire and I only shook my head in reply.
After about a longer while, Albert came with a distorted piece of welded metal that looked like a window frame of one of the burned houses that he must have pulled out from somewhere beneath the rubbles. It occupied a bigger space in the cart when I placed it in its comfortable position. I have seen other kariton boys come and go, each carrying their find. There were others who invited me to come and join them.
I took notice of my surroundings, the smell of burnt wax that filled the air, the smoke continuously rising at some points from the ground. I was no stranger to the faces of the people watching, some devastated, others enjoying the devastation. To the kariton boys, this was a day in a perfect place for free scrap hunting. It was, for us, like finding a gold mine. Metals are more expensive than old newspapers, empty bottles, and the bulky bits of tin cans.
It was past midday when we left the place. We were the last ones to go. We had a very good fill on the kariton, so we decided to deliver it immediately to Mr. Hong. On the way, we had our fill of the fish balls that Albert supposedly saved for lunch. It tasted even better, eating with our blackened dirty hands, and the anticipation that we could be getting a better sale of the scraps than the usual everyday trip to the scrap buyer.
It was a hot afternoon sun that leads us to Mr. Hong’s junkyard in Nakpil. There had been an increasingly huge crowd of people that we saw on the way, proof of the inevitably growing population of Zaragoza. From what we have learned, according to one of the kariton boys who came in line before us, waiting for his turn with the weighing, the people at the university had once again held a demonstration rally on the streets, and they have gathered a huge number of farmers from the countryside. They have converged at the plaza together with a multitude of labor groups from the city who went on strike.
When it was our turn to weigh all the scraps that we have gathered, Albert opened the matter to the Chinese guy in an attempt to put up a sensible conversation, but Mr. Hong never cared the least. He started out complaining about having too much metal scraps for the day. With that, we already knew what he was going to say next. He would bring down the price per kilo of the metal scraps and there is nothing more that could be done about his decision. Hoping he would change his mind, we did everything to convince him to maintain the price, but as he always says, ‘take it or leave it, settle with the price or go find another buyer.’ I attempted a bargain myself but I was no good, eventually we were made to give in to his decision. Nonetheless, we still got more than the usual sale. The money we earned counted thirty-eight pesos. We deducted five pesos to add to the fifteen pesos that was left of the capital in Albert’s possession and divided the remaining money among ourselves. We each got eleven pesos. Not bad at all.
Tony Boy had wanted to go to the plaza. Since the time he was introduced to my boarders, he has become interested in all the things that involved the people at the university. He was always interested in schooling. Had he not made to quit school, he could have been the top pupil in their class. Albert himself, wanted to see if his old man was behaving well with his fellow veterans. On the way, he told us of his Lolo, getting into the habit of engaging himself into heated arguments with the old men and has not been getting along well with them. Though I did not spoke to them of my interest to go, I was more than interested myself. When I learned that they had been dragging along the farmers from the small towns, I was hoping against hope that I could bump into my long lost father. Though I could not quite remember his face, I have not totally forgotten the way he looked. My mother said that I walked exactly like my father, the swaying feet, and the dead, non-swaying heavy arms. She also told me that I got my father’s eyes and my manner of giving blank stares. I guess that was why it was easy for her to get rid of me. She must have realized that in everyday that she saw me, I was growing to be more like my father, and the more she looked at me in the eyes, all the more she’s reminded of my father.
We made a turn from Nakpil, going to the direction of the plaza. There was a mounting tension all over the place when we arrived. I have never seen the plaza so crowded with people since the time that man they call diktador visited the city. But this was altogether different. Placards with despising word are being waved, and effigies of exaggerated images were being burned in the air. There were many angry voices shouting and even more angry faces. I thought I saw Boyet screaming over a megaphone, enticing the crowd to anger, with Julian, walking behind him. But the crowd of freely moving people swallowed them out of my sight as quickly as I caught sight of them. We were standing by at a distance, away from the crowd, on the opposite side of the street that separated the park. I asked Tony Boy, and Albert, standing behind me, if they saw Boyet and Julian. I pointed at the spot where I believed to have seen them, but Tony Boy said he was looking at the same direction but he didn’t see them. So I resolved, thinking it was just my imagination.
However one in their cry, it was easy to set apart the working groups in the city from the people at the university and the lowly farmers outside of Zaragoza. The people at the university composed mostly of young faces. They were bolder in their actions, some with bags on their backs, the others with handkerchiefs wrapped around their heads, which seemed to me like an accessory for the event. The city working groups are older-looking, and the weary look of poverty and the hard life was something that their faces could not hide. They behaved in a way that was more cautious, unlike the people from the university who were more passionate and rebellious. The farming group was quieter, with ragged clothes, some with palm leaf hats on. Others were even walking on bare feet. Many of them have lined up, sitting on the gutters of the sidewalks with the undeniable misery painted all over their faces. It gave me the feeling that they were just being used, for the purposes of these rallies that I could not understand.
I was not able to stand looking at every one of them in search for a familiar face that was threatening to fade from my memory. It pierced my heart to imagine my father, hidden among these helpless faces. I have seen a number of policemen scattered in the area. Some were kicking and beating this poor group of men on the side. There had been some attempts from the younger group to protect them from all the harassment, but they could not fully defend themselves either, and the police, if not walking away, would threat them with their guns.
I was telling Albert and Tony Boy that we should better be leaving, but they insisted on staying a while more. I was beginning to sense something bad about to happen but Albert was in awe, like he was in the middle of a hard action movie. Tony Boy on the other hand looked so relaxed, like he was chewing every picture of the entire scenario.
It had to take the sight of two truckloads of policemen coming out of nowhere to convince them to finally go. We immediately vacated the place, taking on a fast, quicker stride, with Tony Boy and I, pushing the cart on the handle, while Albert, leading the way, was pushing on the side, taking control in maneuvering the kariton and clearing the way. Soon the sound of sirens echoed in the air.
"Faster! Faster!" Albert yelled as the streets begin to rattle.
After rolling about a few meters away, the shootings erupted. Stones being thrown flew above us in different directions. People on the streets began to panic, and the stampeding rallyists had begun to overtake us as ripping bullets and water cannons was dispersing them. The riot began.
As it progressed, the rapid firing and exploding sounds became uncontrollable, even the roaring crowd has gone beyond control. Stones and rubbles were falling before us, with the size of a closed fist and even bigger.
"Faster! Faster!"
Still we went on pushing away with all our strength, the kariton rocked and lifts, its wheels barely touching the ground. We were almost flying with our speed, but still the growing hysteria was fast catching up with us. We’ve been hearing the sound of whistles alternating the firing guns and the loud thumping that sends the earth, shaking below us. I saw people taking cover on the stalls in the sidewalks ad many who were running for their own safety.
"Let’s take cover!" I shouted.
"No! Just keep going!" Albert shouted back.
With the loud screams, we could hardly hear each other’s voices. Tony Boy was maintaining his fastest stride, like a raging bull eyeing a single direction. I turned back to take a look at what was going on behind us. From the distance I saw the dispersing policemen with their masks on, throwing tear gas at the crowd. I looked up and saw the heavens, raining fire and rubbles on us.
Then suddenly I felt something knocked me on the head. My vision grew hazier and everywhere I look I get a waving view of the things that I see. It took me a few moments to collect myself and feel the pain in my head. I stopped and held my head, and when I removed my hand it was already bathed in blood. Right then, I saw blood crossing my left eye. When I bent my head, blood dripped from my forehead into the ground. Soon, continuous drops of blood traveled down my face. I begin to tremble, drawing my open blooded palm close to my left eye. It caught the drops of warm blood from my face. I cupped the side of my face from the left cheek to the forehead, where the drippings come, to stop the bleeding.
"’Bert! I got hit! I got hit!" I exclaimed in fear.
"Tony! Tony!"
"’Bert I got hit! Help me!"
"Tony Boy, wake up! Leon, help me here! Tony Boy was shot!"
For a moment, my blurring able eye searched for my friends. My left hand was still covering my left eye. When I turned to my side, I was even more shocked to see Tony Boy, leaning motionless on Albert, with his head hanging on his shoulder. Albert, with arms wrapped around Tony Boy, was struggling with his balance. The whole weight of Tony Boy’s body rested on him. I immediately removed the hand that cupped my face and pulled away Tony Boy’s body to keep them from falling. I pulled him holding his arms and his head swayed up like he has lost the bones in his neck. His body was drenched and his clothes wet with blood. I knelt down allowing him to slid down, his feet lain on the ground with his back lying lifeless against my feet. The bleeding continued from the hole in his chest, by the bullet that ripped his heart. I felt no beating of his pulse when I touched his wrist. Albert cried for help while touching him in the face, still hoping he would regain consciousness. But there was no more way of getting help, everyone was running for their life. Tony Boy died.
Hours passed and night has fallen. After a series of interrogation, we found ourselves locked behind bars and among the many student activists and rallying groups who were arrested at the plaza. After we were questioned about Tony Boy’s identity, when they have gathered all the necessary information that they could get about him, they took his dead body, along with the rest who died during the riot. And there we were, they took us to the police station. We were without a hint of where and what happened to Tony Boy.
We had no way of defending ourselves. Our every action was given meaning. Albert’s resistance to the arrest and his manner of answering back in an impetus, repulsive way, provided them enough reason to doubt his innocence. On the contrary, my sulking silence brought about by the shock of Tony Boy’s sudden death, to them, was a sign that I was hiding a thousand secrets of the underground resistance.
All throughout the questioning, before we were detained, Albert had been fearless with his words to the point of arguing with the officers on the desk. It had to take another one of them to pin him down to his chair to control his rebellious behavior, because even as I was the one being held in question, he never hesitated to interrupt, and with an angry voice, explained how we were with each other, along with another friend who died because of their fault. All his blaming and resistance irritated the man questioning us that he threatened to shoot him if he won’t behave. But his courage was raging in delirium. He told him that his Lolo would soon come for us, and they would all pay for the trouble that they have caused and all their ill treatment towards us.
When they found out from him that he was the grandson of the retired Ishmael Aguas, and made them believe that we were cousins, they stopped the interrogation and led us to a small crowding prison cell of the station. The police then whispered something to his companion. The other guy said they were not fully convinced, and that they would only release us if the old man himself would come and identify us.
The whole night I could not sleep. There was not enough space in the cell for all of us to lay ourselves to sleep. I sat in a corner, with Albert sitting next to the iron bars, both feet clamped between hands. It was a cold night, even with the crowded surroundings and the pungent smell of rust, sweat, and the scent of blood that dried up in my clothes and on my skin. The wound in my head that I have not seen was beginning to ache and becoming heavy. Albert, with one hand crossing both knees, and the other, holding on to an iron bar had finally settled with silence. He was staring blankly at the wide-open space of the room where some five policemen on duty had been keeping themselves busy with the things that they do to stay awake in the night. The ones close to the cell was busy polishing his .45 revolver sitting on a chair with one feet raised on the table. The one opposite him, with his back facing on us busied himself with his typewriter. One stood on the doorway puffing cigarette, watching the evening view outside the station, and the other two, playing a game of chess at the receiving area.
I on the other hand had been studying the faces of our fellow detainees, the faces of strangers that brought us into the dilemma of risks. There were some who had gone to sleep and many who stayed awake, murmuring about to each other with watchful eyes. From their eyes I’ve seen fire that glowed with passion and anger, and courage that tells me of their willingness to fight for whatever cause they believed in.
I remembered what Boyet had told me about the things that I had to discover for myself about people and things that I ought to give a closer look at. Yet still I found no way of confirmation. Perhaps this was it, perhaps not. My feeling of indifference to the things that I see had always been the greatest obstacle to reconcile my thoughts with the reality that I was faced with. Nevertheless, in ways that I could hardly comprehend, they made me see the things that I often withhold from my consciousness. I realized that I was no different from them where they have started. We were swimming on the same river that runs in our mind, breathe the same air and were given the same warmth by the same sun in the sky. What they do and the persons that they have become was the only thing that sets them apart from the person that I remained to be.
But I needed to hear them. I have seen some whom were whispering about to each other, the way Julian whispered to Boyet when they had to discuss about something of utmost importance, or the way Julian and Mira murmured about to each other when they had something to settle with. Then, I wished Boyet should have told me everything that I needed to know so that I did not have to dwell in solitude in the confines of my own understanding. But then again, I remembered the way he saw through me, how I knew of something like I’ve given it a thought, the things that I saw when I thought I saw nothing. The monster inside me was fast consuming me.
I turned to Albert. He had fallen asleep, his head resting against the iron bars to his right. I touched the skin in my forehead and the wound that by then had started to swell, down to the upper lid of my left eye. I had been feeling the pain but I had not been giving it so much attention. There had been a lot of things that was running in my mind that I had forgotten about my condition.
On my left side was a young man hiding behind my shadow. All the while he had been very quiet, and when he started a soft humming of a familiar song, I turned to him and he forced a smile at me.
"You’re not a part of this, are you?" he asked in a soft firm voice.
I shook my head, bowed down. I wanted to avoid him, but he changed the tone of his voice and started speaking with sympathy.
"What happened to that?"
"Huh?"
I looked at him and he raised a finger, pointing at the cut in my forehead.
"Somebody hit me."
"Hit you?"
"At the plaza. Accidentally, I believe."
"I’m sorry."
"For what?"
"We had to defend ourselves. I picked a stone myself."
I did not react to what he said. The police who was watching over us has finished cleaning his gun and had tucked it on his side. His pricking eyes winged on us when he got up. Then he walked away and joined the two who were playing chess. The continuous clicking sound of the typewriter that silenced our conversation halted when the officer who was using it stretched his arms. He lighted a cigarette and shuffled through the files in the stack of papers on the desk beside the typewriter. The tick-tacking sound resumed when he went on with his typing jobs.
"Are you afraid?" He asked, as if there was a need to confirm.
"What are they going to do to us?"
"Simple. Wait till the officer-in-charge for the interrogation arrives. Pray that you come out of here intact. They will employ all sorts of torturing that they can think of, just to get what they want from you of your faithful allegiance to the resistance."
"I’m innocent."
"I know. But it doesn’t matter. They will tell you who you are and what you do. There is no use defending yourself. They will believe whatever they want to believe you to be, and the more you resist, all the more you suffer. They will beat you to your knees, tear your body parts into pieces if they want to, like animal meat. You would forget who you are. You’ll be lucky if you’ll survive. Pray that you are not in the list. I know of some who were never heard of since they walked into that room."
"Are you not afraid?"
"Of course I am. I would not have allowed myself to be involved in all these if I’m not."
The last thing he said I did not understand. He had to cut himself from talking when he saw the guy standing on the doorway looking at our direction. He said we should better be getting some sleep and hope to see the sun in the morning. He turned his head away from me and pretended to sleep.
I rested my head against the wall behind me. I was almost sure that I could never see the break of daylight. The horrors of Tony Boy’s death started to haunt me. The memories of our days together keep flashing back in my mind.
It was hard to believe how death comes when you least expect it. It was hard to imagine how it caught Tony Boy but has escaped me, like it was not meant to be. I have always regarded him as somebody gifted with intellect that he would soon use to liberate us from the uncertainties of the times. Then, I thought that only those who were endowed with the mental capacity for knowledge had the right to dream. Dreamer as he was, it seemed to me then that he had long paved the way to achieving his true purpose, that in whatever way and however hard life had treated him, he was destined to survive. He had every reason to look into his future and believe that he was made for the world. I have always thought his time would come, I never expected his life to end so soon.
Even as he was still in school, he had been excelling and showing signs of greatness, that even when he quitted school, I know he never quit his education. It was a pity on my part to be too late to have sum him up, to look into the things that I have never seen in him from his years of existence. I regret that I had taken him for granted. I thought, I should have been more quick to see the strength of his mind, and should have at least provided for him the encouragement that he needed, the way Boyet saw through him when he lend him his book.
It was such a big waste. I thought it should have been me. I often think that if I die, I would die like I have never existed at all. My body would sink into the muddy waters of the river Sol, because a space for a grave is too precious that it only belonged to those who served a purpose for the world.
Deeper into the night, I have tried to exhaust myself of the intertwining thoughts that I have come to collect in my mind with the events that unfolded during the past few days. Between intellect and wisdom, wisdom and courage, courage and fear, between fear and death and death itself, it has brought me so much confusion to see how these things may lead to another. I gazed at the young man beside me, I believe he was just a few years older than me, but his words are as strange as that of a man in his rocking chair. The way he spoke of fear and how he recognized mine like he never feared anything at all. How he was quick to dissociate me from all of them came so easily like telling day from night. The way he spoke of execution with ease, like death was a friend. At last his claims to fear. Right then, I realized that I feared for my life. I realized how I feared the thought of dying.
Hours passed and I would have to see the sun again. But along with it came the face of death, disguised as an officer who would be the one in charge of the secret interrogation. He was a big man in uniform, with bulging stomach, and his face was that of someone who could never be trusted. One of the men, the one who did the typing during the night, handed him a folder, which, seemed to me was the list that the guy I talked to was talking about. I turned to him, cramping on my side, and he stared at me with careless eyes in return. I was beginning to feel the tight air of doom building in our midst as I watched the rest of them. I have seen some who remained resilient to their surroundings, but could never hide their courage, crumbling with the beatings of their heart.
The officer. Walking back and forth searched through every one of us, like he was contemplating on something. I woke Albert up. The early riser seemed to have enjoyed the sleep that he failed to witness the crowing of the roosters. He was no more surprised to see the interrogating officer making his way before the iron bars. His groping eyes rose on him, like watching the sky, and taking notice of every step he made when all the rest had wanted to avoid him. He was confident Lolo Ishamel would get us out before it would be too late. I was hoping that he was worth his confidence. I pushed his head down as I quietly listened to the sound of his footsteps, waiting for him to speak. I trembled in fear, and with my hand wet between my knees I felt the beads of sweat forming on the skin on my face. Albert drew closer to me, his head touching mine. I know then that fear has invaded him.
"Who is that?"
I did not answer him. The steps drew closer, and farther, and closer again, like he was measuring the entire stretch of the iron bars from left to right. When it halted, I held myself from breathing. Then he called out a name, complete with family name. It was not mine, nor Albert’s. I thought, I was lucky that I was given a few more minutes with my life, but I was without hope anymore, and the thought of it only prolonged my agony. I was turning numb and my hand wet with sweat when I touched my ankles. I waited for a sound to come from among us. Suddenly I felt the young man next to me, slowly moved. I turned to him, getting up on his feet. All the more I was petrified. I felt like I was going to be the one next in the list, my name to be called after him. Another officer opened the cell and called him out. He was then handcuffed and they lead him to a room next to the detention cell. He walked in full surrender, never resisting his fate.
They locked him up in the room. The interrogating officer and another guy walked inside with him. I took a deep breath when they disappeared into the room. By then, the contagious feeling of fear had become evident in my friend. He was gripping my hand so tight. When I looked at him, he had turned pale, his eyes opened wide with fallen jaws, frozen in shock.
A while had passed and still all of us were barely moving, and the first pounding sound was heard from the room. When the rest of the stationing police heard this, they started laughing. When the first cry was heard, they imitated the sound. Then a series of lashing and thumping sound followed with the continuously moaning voice of the young man. One of the stationing police peeped through the door and it released a splashing sound of water and the breathing sound of somebody who was like on the brink of drowning. I had no idea what they did to him, but I was feeling like it was the end of me.
I was never inclined to praying. I have never find the strength of hoping for the things that prayer can provide. In those rare moments that I prayed, I felt that God was never really listening. Though I never turned my back on my faith, I believe that I could never find a way of convincing God to change my destiny. I never doubted his existence but then I thought, He just went as far as bringing me to the world, and had since, left me on my own. I was more inclined to questioning myself if there are things that I did not understand and had to find the purpose of things, its meanings and reasons, rather than asking Him.
I professed my faith, go to church, prayed with my deceased grandmother, and in those rare instances, confided to Him all the things that went on around me, asking without faith. And though it proved to be an obvious lack of conviction, it was never really a question of trust to the things that only He can do. Yet still I would doubt. Sometimes I would think that perhaps He does answer prayers. I do not doubt His ability to provide, but I have accepted to myself that the world is full of sick people looking up to Him, that I wondered if He could still find the time to attend to me. At my lowest points, I have learned to live my life with the thought that there was no God.
Lolo Ishmael arrived, unaware of the situations that we got ourselves into. The group in uniform welcomed him like welcoming a little boy who was just playing around, pretending he was a police officer. Indeed, there is God, and this time He came to my rescue. All of a sudden my heart leaped for salvation at the sight of the old man. As he made his way inside the station, those who recognized him first, clowning, faked a salute at the old man, with foolish smiles on their faces. They greeted him good morning. But the old man was in no mood for smiling, or talking nice. He didn’t look like he was sad. He looked upset. Surely then, something must have gone wrong.
"I’m looking for my boys! Those boys did not go home last night! Have you seen them?" He asked, with voice slightly raised.
He asked them if they knew us, as if they knew us. The man close to him was about to ask him in return when Albert, who instantly got up from sitting and tightly gripped at the iron bars, called out to him.
"Lolo!"
The old man turned his head, and then his whole body, completing a full turn. He searched for the direction of the voice. The old man’s sense of hearing had deteriorated but he can clearly recognize Albert’s voice.
"That is my Boy! Where is he? Where are you hiding him?"
"Lolo, over here!"
"Where is he? Where is he? He went on turning. His eyesight had been slowly deteriorating as well.
"Over here, Lolo! Na’andito po kami."
I gathered up all my remaining strength and rose to my feet like rising from the dead. I stood next to Albert, sticking out my hands, allowing it to hang on the bars. Albert was waving at the old man. With the men in uniform around him, he stood there like Jesus surrounded by demons. Our redeemer had arrived, and though I doubted if he would still recognize me after what happened to my face that was all deformed, I know Albert would be there to remind him.
He has lost his boys, his grandson and his news reporter, and finally he found them. He was mad, and he reprimanded all of them for what they did to us, and when he saw the cell all packed with a lot of catch, I know he was thinking they deserved to be hanged.
After our release, he told us to go home. First he looked at me like I was an odd creature that he saw for the first time. But Albert was quick to perceive the indifferent squinting eye that was strangely digging through me, and told him I just woke up that’s why my face was swollen.
He scolded Albert for not going home. His reason was simple. Because he was left all alone in the house, he was not able to eat supper and breakfast in the morning, and was not able to secure a copy of The Tribune. He was mad because he had been to one police station and had commissioned the officer on duty to look for us. This was his second stop and he was tired, his feet were aching. Had he known exactly what happened, but we did not bother brought it up to him. It was a long story and we had wanted to leave. There was no point of telling him the whole story. I was taking the hint from Albert. He always had a way of turning a plain conversation into an argument, and he would always assert his reasons to prove himself right, above all else.
Before we left, we asked the officer who arrested us, where the dead bodies were brought. He told us they took them to the morgue, there were some that were not yet identified and some that were already claimed by their families. He told us to check the morgue if we know of somebody who died during the riot, and that it might help that we identified some of the unclaimed bodies. He also told us to check all funeral parlors we know. He was talking as if he was so concerned. Had he not known that we are related to the great Ishmael Aguas, he would have been cold in his treatment.
We left the station and the moaning sound that escaped the dark mysterious room. I never bothered to look back at those who have remained in detention. I wanted to escape the agony of the experience and just thought myself lucky above the rest.
On the way, I asked Albert how his Lolo became so influential. He told me that during his years of service, he saved the life of a man who was then the mayor of Zaragoza. That man was the father of the present mayor who was a loyalist to the diktador.
I would have wanted to ask some more questions about his Lolo, but he told me we had other important things to attend to. He said I should better go home with him so he need not drop by my house on the way to inform Tony Boy’s parents of their son’s death.
