A SONG FOR MY BROTHER

by

Antonio A. Hidalgo

A deserted cemetery is one of the most forlorn places on earth. Especially an empty cemetery during a burial. Only Marla, Maya and I, dressed in shades of black and gray, were under the tent, while a handful of workers prepared the grave for the burial last week at the Himlayang Pilipino, at the northern tip of Quezon City , near Bulacan. The plot was in a new, undeveloped area of the memorial park. There was a storm warning for the Metro-Manila area and it was drizzling. The wind was up, whipping the newly planted saplings sparsely distributed in the grassless areas around our tent. The priest provided by the park kept looking worriedly at the dark storm clouds and at his watch, obviously wishing that the workers would hurry it up so that he could go back to the safety and comfort of his church.

Memory

Is but a fiction of Time

Neither real or unreal

WE ARE HIDING in the gumamela bushes, my brother Amading and I, waiting for just the right time to strike. It is a windless, hot afternoon in May and the relentless sun curls the air above the asphalt street leading to the gravel driveway of Professor Cruz's sawali cottage, creating the illusion of a wavy street and making us a little dizzy. The hens in the makeshift coop of rusty chicken wire and discarded wood are faring no better. Instead of cackling at our presence beside them, they are standing close to the wire, staring vacantly outside, panting heavily, with their mouths open and their tongues hanging out.

I signal to Amading that I will charge by cocking my head slightly toward the chicken coop. He nods and I swiftly jump over the unruly hedge and dash for the nests inside the coop. I hurriedly raise the wire of the coop, tearing it from the rotting strip of wood which holds it to the ground. Amading and I crawl beneath the wire and burrow in the rice straw in the nests to scoop up the eggs.

All hell breaks loose. The hens are panicked by our raid and fly around the tiny coop as they cackle indignantly at our sudden intrusion into their house. Amading and I crouch to keep from hitting our heads on the roof of old G.I. sheets. We fend off the hens with one hand as we pocket the eggs with the other. A thunderous shout explodes from the cottage. It is Professor Cruz threatening to kill us for sure this time. We crawl under the wire, jump over the hedge and run for our lives. The hens follow us under the wire and noisily fly for theirs too. I never look back, so I don't know if Professor Cruz actually barges out of the house with his rifle, as he sometimes does.

We sit in the shade of an old sampaloc tree at the back of the decrepit Quonset hut that used to be the movie theater when there were still American families in Area XIV at the U.P. campus. Our backs are to the theater and we look out at the empty golf course across the barbed wire fence that the American Army had put up to seal off the residential areas. This is our place and we are safe here.

We have spent many afternoons here rummaging through the rubbish left by the departing Americans—empty reels and cans of movie film, a torn screen at one end of the hut, the plywood bar where they used to sell popcorn and soft drinks, stacks of old tickets, scattered flyers announcing the movie of the week, and, strangely enough, piles of clay pigeons for skeet shooting. We never figured out why there were clay pigeons in the abandoned theater, but they were our favorites in the treasure trove. We often alternated in tossing a clay pigeon in the air while the other tried to blast it with a slingshot. We got high the few times we actually hit a clay pigeon.

“How many eggs did you get?” I ask Amading as soon as I catch my breath.

“Four,” he says and empties his pockets.

“I only got three,” I tell him as I lay them on the ground beside his eggs.

Amading gets up to rinse the old paint can where we boil the eggs. I start to gather twigs for the fire. I arrange three stones as a base for the can and Amading partially fills the can with water from the faucet in the theater and puts in the eggs. After I start the fire, he places the can on top of the stones. I light up a Chesterfield that we share fifty-fifty while we wait for the water to boil.

“Did you see if Professor Cruz came out with his rifle?” I ask Amading.

“Yeah, he did. Didn't you see him? He was swearing, his face was red, and he was in his sando .”

I laugh. “No, I was too scared to look back. Weren't you?”

Amading laughs. “He forgot his glasses. That old fart couldn't hit this theater from twenty feet without his glasses.”

When the eggs are done, Amading takes the can by the wire handle, empties the boiling water, and cools off the eggs by filling the can with cold tap water. I put out the fire by stepping on it and scattering the smoldering twigs. Amading lays the eggs on the ground and takes out the salt that he had snitched from Ma's kitchen. We feast quietly, swiftly wolfing down the hardboiled eggs with the kind of appetite that only young boys have. Amading offers me, his Kuya , the last egg. I insist that he take it because he got four to my three eggs.

After eating, we relive our adventure by recounting it several times. We recall the many other times we have raided Professor Cruz's poultry. We exaggerate his angry appearances at each raid and his frustrated curses until the tears come to our eyes from laughing so hard.

Then we climb the sampaloc tree to release some of the excess energy and strength we got from the boiled eggs. I lean back on a large branch and Amading does the same on an adjoining one. I pull out a prayer book—one of those pornographic mini books with stories full of fucking and lots of black and white pictures of screwing couples and threesomes. I flip through the pictures and then hand the booklet to Amading. He gives it back to me after a few minutes and I read aloud the so-called story in English. We both unzip our pants and start playing with ourselves. A few moments later, Amading announces triumphantly that he has finished. I ejaculate a few seconds after Amading comes. I tell him that I won the race. He takes none of my bullshit and insists that he won.

Dusk descends on the forlorn golf course across the fence of barbed wire. We sit quietly on our perches in the tree as we contemplate the end of another day. Presently, I climb down and Amading follows. We go into the decrepit theater to take a last look, in the dark, at our very own place. We sadly leave by the front door and slowly walk home to our parents' house five blocks away. Halfway there, Amading breaks into a sprint and I race him home. He wins this race, too, because of his head start.

Too far

Our sun is a star

Scattering light but no warmth

“BUT HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?” I angrily ask Mon. It is early evening and there are just the two of us standing on the lower steps of the Arts and Sciences building at the U.P. campus. The night wind has started to blow, so we stoop behind the concrete flower boxes on one end of the stairs to keep the wind from mussing our pomaded hair too much. The campus has shut down and the long street in front of the A.S. building is completely empty. The lights are on behind the massive wrought iron gate at the top of the stairs, which is always locked. They cast long shadows on the steps all the way to the street. Mon and I face each other in the flickering shadows.

“I couldn't intervene. Manny's argument was perfectly sound. You imposed the rule that no neophytes with fives could be accepted before I became head of the frat,” Mon answered.

“Manny had two fives when he joined. He's been kicked out since.”

“He joined before your rule.”

“That was never a rule. I proposed it last year, but it hasn't been applied yet. Why should it be applied only to my younger brother?”

“Because Manny hates you and so do a lot of the other brods. They think you look down on them because you were a university scholar.”

“And you sided with them, after I proposed you to head the frat when they rebelled against my leadership?”

“I couldn't intervene. Manny was right. Your proposed rule should apply to all—including Amading."

“But you're the Supreme Exalted Brother—your word is law!”

“I also have to keep the frat intact. Why didn't you attend the presentation? You could have argued for Amading yourself.”

“I didn't know that they were going to reject Amading. I'm very busy with my first semester of teaching.”

“It's your fault, then.”

“No, it's not. I didn't know about the plot. They harmed Amading to get back at me. It means so much to him. And you, my closest brod, did not protect my brother!” I cannot hold back my anger and frustration any longer. Tears stream down my face after I say this.

Mon cries, too, out of compassion. He embraces me and apologizes profusely for letting me down. He invites me to drink at our hangout at the Capitol Spot in a Caltex gasoline station on Quezon Avenue . I take a rain check because I need to talk to Amading. I leave Mon and briskly walk home to Area XIV through the dark empty streets lined by tall acacia trees. I meet only one security guard doing his rounds along the whole stretch of more than a kilometer.

I catch Amading in our room before dinner. He is lying in bed in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

“I heard about your rejection from Mon just a few minutes ago. You shouldn't take it personally. It's really me they want to hurt,” I say to him softly as I sit on my bed.

“I know,” Amading answers without looking at me.

“I was angry at Mon for not defending you.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn't know about the plot. That's why I wasn't at the meeting to defend you.”

“It's alright.”

“Why did you apply now, when you have a five? You should have studied hard this sem and applied next sem.”

“Yeah, I'm sorry.”

I look at Amading, who is still lying in bed fully clothed, with his shoes on, still staring at the ceiling. And I realize that I cannot reach him tonight, for he is not really there.

Bonded

Flesh to flesh

We survive

Entrapped and entwined

“YOU HAVE TO HELP ME. I don't know what to do anymore!” Ma says desperately as she reaches across the glass top of the dining table to grasp my hand. “Amading has gone from bad to worse since your father died. He doesn't want to study anymore. He sleeps all day and stays out all night. He steals money from me to buy drugs.”

I understand Ma's agitation. Since Pa suddenly died of a burst aneurysm in his aorta about ten months ago, and since Ma was diagnosed to have terminal cancer of the cervix at about the same time, Marla, Maya and I have spent one night a week and all of our weekends with Ma in her mother's house in San Lorenzo Village in Makati. Pa, Ma and Amading had moved there from the U.P. a few months after I had gotten married and had set up house in a rented apartment on Malakas Street in Quezon City . I have noticed during my frequent visits that Amading is hardly ever home. I have also heard about his going around with a fast crowd of young men in Makati who come from wealthy families.

I look at Ma in alarm and clasp her hands. She is ravaged by the chemotherapy. Half her hair is gone and nearly all her flesh has been eaten away by the cancer and its supposed cure. I blink briefly to try to recapture the chubby, pretty mother of my boyhood in my mind. It does not work. Ma is still skin and bones.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask helplessly.

“Talk to him. Convince him to marry his girl friend, who comes from a good family. That may make him more responsible.”

“What will they live on?”

“Sell this house and a couple of other properties I inherited from my mother. Use the money to pay for my medical bills and the rest, the two of you can share after I'm gone.”

I ponder a bit and absently look at Maya playing quietly with her plastic doughnuts in the sala, blissfully unaware of our serious discussion. “He may not listen to me. I'm a large part of his problem. He thinks he lost our competition for your, and Pa's, love and admiration,” I finally say.

“Try. For my sake.”

I look outside the window beside the dining table. I notice that a strip of plywood has peeled off from the ceiling overhanging the window. I make a note to myself to have it repaired. There are many other things in the old house that need to be repaired—the screen door on the porch, the broken window pane in the maid's room, the stereo set that doesn't work. I reluctantly nod my agreement and get up to go to Amading's room.

“Wake up, Amading. Ma wants me to talk to you,” I tell him as I shake his shoulder.

“Shit. Does it have to be now? I was up all night!”

“I'm afraid so. Ma's very worried.”

“Okay, okay. I'll wash up first.”

I sit and smoke a Marlboro while I wait. I smoke two sticks before Amading emerges from the bathroom.

“Okay. What is it this time, Kuya ?” Amading asks sarcastically as he sits on his bed.

“Ma says your life is a mess and she wants you to straighten it out before she dies.”

“She won't die. She'll outlive both of us.”

“You're crazy. Can't you see that she's as thin as a stick?”

“Yeah? And of course only you know when she will croak. What's your brilliant plan this time?”

“Ma wants you to marry Grace. She thinks that will make you responsible.”

“Sure. I'll just move her into this room. Who will pay for the wedding? And our family expenses?”

“Ma has asked me to sell all her properties, including this house. There should be enough cash to pay for her bills and your wedding. Maybe even for a little nest egg to start you off with. But you'll have to find a job after you get married.”

The smirk slowly leaves Amading's face as he ponders the possibilities. He gets up and paces the room. Then he says: “How will I get a job without a degree?”

“I'll help you with my brods. You can't be picky, of course. Just take whatever you can get and work your way up.”

“Okay,” Amading says instantly, “I'm willing to prove myself.”

“There's a catch.”

“I knew it. With you, there's always one. What is it this time?”

“Ma says you're on drugs. You'll have to enter the rehab center at the Makati Med for a month, just to make sure that you'll be ready to start afresh.”

“That's bullshit, and you know it! You want me to stay with the lunatics in that madhouse for a month? You know that that center is for both druggies and crazies!”

“It will only be for a month.”

“No way. Sure, I smoke a little Mary Jane now and then. But I'm no druggie. I'm not hooked on anything.”

“Oh yeah? Then how come you steal money from Ma? Show me your forearms and ankles.”

“Bullshit! What are you, a cop? I tell you, I don't need any rehab!”

“I'm afraid you don't have a choice. Neither one of us is walking out of here until you agree,” I say with finality as I stand up to my full height of six feet.

Amading stands up too. He is a little taller and bigger than me now. “Okay, make me, then,” he says as he glowers at me.

Marla barges into the room at just the right time. She has been listening outside the door.

“C'mon, both of you, cool it. Sit down and listen to me. Ma is dying. She has a few months at the most. It's Ma who wants you to do these things, Amading, not Oscar,” she says as she gently presses her hand down on Amading's shoulder to make him sit on the bed. I sit down too.

“Even if you don't think you need to rehab, can't you do it for Ma's sake? It's like a dying wish. We'll see to it that you have everything you need while in rehab. I'll visit you everyday to make sure,” Marla says. She is the only one standing.

Amading looks up at her desolately. Then he buries his face in his hands and starts to sob. When he is done crying, he stands up and says: “Okay, you all win, as usual. But I can't believe that you would send your own brother to the loony bin, Oscar. I'm hungry. I'm going to the kitchen to get something.”

The rush, oh the rush

The teetering before winning or losing

Like a delectable shivering orgasm

“I'M AT THE LOBBY. I'm coming up,” Amading's voice booms over the house phone. In a minute, he is at the door of our hotel room and I let him in. We embrace briefly, then he kisses Marla and Maya, who shyly offers her cheek like a proper young lady should. We have just arrived from Singapore, where I work for the Bank of America, for a couple of weeks' home leave, and our bags are strewn all over the floor. Amading skips over them to join me in the sofa in the small anteroom.

“You're fat,” I say to him.

“And you're bald,” he shoots back. We laugh as we pour out the beers that Marla brings us from the fridge. “Let's have dinner at our house in Las Piñas tomorrow night, okay?” Amading asks Marla.

“Sure,” Marla says as she closes a bag and props it up against the wall. “How's Grace? And the kids?”

“She cooks too well. That's why we're all fat. She has a canteen at the DBP branch beside us. Carla is on the honors list in high school. Bong is like me, he can't seem to finish high school.”

“Maya's in college now, taking up economics. Come and talk to Tito Amading, Maya,” Marla answers.

We finish our beers and leave Marla and Maya for a night out.

“New car?” I ask Amading as I get into his green Toyota Crown at the basement parking lot.

“Naah, I got it second-hand for a good price from a customer of mine. Business is good. I've managed to save a little from my commissions even after buying this car and paying the mortgage on the house. Maybe we'll visit you in Singapore one of these days.”

“That would be great. Do it soon, before I'm transferred again.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Amading takes me to the Makati Cinema Square , where we spend an hour at an air-gun target range. We play several matches of ten shots each at fifteen meters. He beats me most of the time. I figure he must practice here a lot.

After shooting, I want to go to Amorsolo, a bar around the corner with young, pretty waitresses in bathing suits. He insists on taking me to dinner first at the Golden Pearl, a Chinese restaurant a floor above the target range.

The restaurant is small and a bit tacky, but it is spotlessly clean. Right after we order food and beers, a young woman in a blue skirt and white blouse that look like a uniform comes to our table. Amading stands up to seat her.

“This is Lisa,” Amading says to me, “she has just finished her shift as a takilyera at one of the movie houses on this floor. She'll be joining us tonight.”

I am quite solicitous of Lisa over dinner, piling her plate high with food and encouraging her to take some wine or beer. I'm not sure what she is doing there with us and figure that there is always the possibility that Amading has fixed her up for me tonight.

Lisa joins us at the Amrosolo bar and I hold her hand as we sing a duet at the karaoke room, while Amading looks on with great amusement. Then I take her out to the main bar for a couple of slow dances and start hitting on her. She laughs and calls me Kuya .

After I have made a complete fool of myself, Amading whispers sweetly into her ear at our table in a dark corner to show me that she is his. And when they talk about her child by a previous marriage in parental tones at the end of the evening, I finally understand that she has been Amading's mistress for sometime now.

Imperceptibly

Subtly

We succumb

Shutting our eyes

WE ARE LEANING on the gleaming metal railing of the third floor of the new Megamall, looking down at April Boy Regino as he sings on a makeshift stage at the lobby. He lets it all out and the enthusiastic crowd periodically responds with high-pitched screams. April Boy throws out dozens of baseball caps, handfuls of candies, and a few T-shirts at the crowd as he sings. There is a mad scramble for the goodies.

“Like him?” Amading asks me.

“Yeah, he's good. But why does he have to bribe his fans? He doesn't need to,” I answer.

“It's a Filipino custom. You've been away too long.”

“What's so Filipino about dependency?”

“Listen, I need to get something in your car,” Amading says as he walks to the parking lot at one end of the ridiculously long corridor. I follow him and we leave the screaming teens.

Amading opens the window of the front passenger seat and makes himself comfortable by adjusting the seat. I sit at the driver's side, open my window and wonder what he is up to. He slowly pulls out various gadgets and many small plastic envelopes from his pockets. Then he cooks something with a lighter. He focuses intently on what he is doing, as if it were one of our experiments in high school biology class.

“What is that?” I ask.

“Shabu,” Amading says.

He finally rolls a cigarette after the elaborate preparations, lights up and inhales deeply. His facial expression relaxes almost instantly. He offers me a puff. I push away his hand in disgust.

“That stuff will kill you,” I tell him sternly.

“It relaxes me. Helps me cope with my problems. You can't imagine. Grace paralyzed from the stroke. Losing Lisa. Losing my job. The expenses. Bringing up the kids practically by myself.”

“And that will help? You're nuts!”

“C'mon. You need this, too. You've just been fired by your bank in Singapore .”

“Retrenched. With a golden handshake. And I intend to find another job here.”

“Sure. But why not relax first?”

“And get hooked on shabu? Your brains are addled!”

“You're such a fuddy-duddy, always the Kuya . Remember Woodstock from our youth? That's the way to go. Life is too short to take seriously.”

“Drugs are a trap!”

“I've invented a new technology that will keep me from getting hooked. It's really original. Maybe I'll patent it someday,” Amading tells me seriously. He is high now. I give up and tell him I'm going home. He carefully puts out his cigarette and slips the butt into an envelope. He tells me he'll just hang out at the mall for awhile.

Perfect reciprocals:

Success … Failure;

Alternative tempos:

Modes of being.

“HELP ME! These assholes want to take me to the Las Piñas police station!” Amading yells into my phone at three a.m. I hear curses, a loud thud and the phone goes dead.

“Where are you, Amading? What's happening?” I yell into my phone. No answer. The phone is dead.

My brother is in trouble again, I reflect. Lucky for him that I have a job now as vice president of the Bank of the Philippine Islands. Kuya to the rescue once more. I wake Marla to tell her of the call.

“Are you sure it was Amading?” she asks.

“Absolutely.”

“Then we must go and help him.”

I call Henry, my colleague at the BPI who lives in Las Piñas, and ask him to help out by joining us at the station. Henry is waiting for me at the brightly lit doorway of the station when Marla and I get there.

“I've talked to the senior officer. Amading is in a cell inside. His neighbor complained that he is a pusher who sells shabu to his daughter. They didn't catch any shabu on him, but they got lots of shabu paraphernalia. I think we can spring him on your guarantee that he will go into rehab,” Henry tells me quickly, before I enter the station. He takes me to Amading's cell.

Amading is squatting on his haunches in the far corner of the tiny cell, casting furtive glances at the cell bars, like a cornered animal. He springs up and strides to the bars when we approach.

“Look what they did to me! The motherfuckers beat me and locked me up on mere suspicion of being a pusher. They have no evidence. Charge them with police brutality. Teach them a lesson!” Amading yells out to me, though I am standing only a couple of feet away on the other side of the bars.

I look at him. He is a mess. He is very thin and his cheeks are sunken. He is dressed in a dirty white T-shirt which is wet from his tears and snot, denim shorts and the closed-toed tsinelas that old sabungeros like to use. The left side of his face is swollen and his left eye is half-closed from a nasty blackeye.

“What happened?” I ask, the tears of pity welling in my eyes.

“Hell, I don't know. I was just hanging out with some friends a block from my house when this police car came with its sirens wailing. Naturally, we dashed away to avoid any trouble. They chased me, tackled me, and beat me in the face with my own tsinelas . They cursed me and called me a pusher, searched my pockets and then clapped me in jail. Help me get out of here. Please. They might kill me if you don't.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

I approach the sergeant at the desk, give him my calling card and introduce myself as Henry's friend and Amading's older brother. I ask him to release Amading into my custody.

“Are you sure you want him released? He's a walking time bomb, you know. It's a question of time before he commits a violent crime. And he's destroying lives by pushing,” the sergeant replies with some heat.

“You have no evidence of his pushing. This is his first arrest.”

“Can't you see how high he is? He gave us a tough time and tried to fight back. I really should throw the book at him.”

“I'm sorry for his behavior. But you can't hold him without finding any shabu, can you? Why force me to hire a lawyer who might even charge you with abusing my brother's human rights?”

“But if you leave him here, I'll send him straight to the rehab center in Bicutan, where he might be cured.”

“I'll take care of a private rehab if you release him to me. And Mr. Henry Lacuesta and I will owe you a favor. We work for the BPI, you know. Who knows, maybe we can help you out with a bank loan or something in the future?”

“Make your brother sign a statement promising to go into rehab and releasing us from any liability for his arrest.”

I go back to Amading and explain the terms for his release. At first, he refuses to sign any statement on going into rehab, since that would practically admit that he is a shabu addict. But he relents when I explain that that is the only way that he will get out of jail. As he laboriously scrawls his statement on the police blotter, I notice how unfocused his eyes are and how bad his handwriting is. I conclude that he is high, as the sergeant said, and resolve to make him undergo rehab.

After thanking Henry profusely in the driveway of the station, Marla and I take Amading home. Once there, he jumps out of the car, runs to his bedroom and slams the door shut. He yells at me through the door that he would rather die first then go into rehab with the crazies again. I yell back that he has no choice in the matter. I'm coming back at seven a.m. to take him to the Makati Med rehab. Otherwise, he will have to deal with the police on his own.

Later that morning, I return and knock on the door of Amading's house. Bong opens it. I go into the bedroom and only Grace is there in their bed. It is painful to look at her. She was fat all her life, now all her limbs are wasted and only her torso and face resemble the Grace of old. She is disheveled and no one has bothered to comb her hair. I wonder if anyone has bothered to bathe her lately.

She weeps uncontrollably for several minutes when I come in. I pull a chair to her bedside and try to soothe her by stroking her forehead.

“It has been hell this past year, Oscar. Amading is so weak—he's falling apart again, just like when your parents died. Only this time, I'm too sick to help him cope. You cannot imagine how bad it is. The rages. Blaming me for my stroke. Yelling at Carla and Bong all the time, the few times he is home. It's affecting their studies. Help us, please.”

“Of course. I came to take him to rehab. Do you know where he went?”

“He took some clothes and the car. He's probably with his addict friends. I don't know any of them.”

“Call me when he comes home and I'll come over.”

“Please. Just ask the police to arrest him and force him into rehab.”

“I'm sorry, I can't do that. They beat him up last night.”

“But you have to. It's our only chance. He has to get well again.”

“I've heard bad things about the government center in Bicutan. The guards beat up the inmates and sell them shabu. Use them for crimes, too. It's better if we bring him to the Makati Med.”

“He won't go with you, this time. He told me that when you brought him home.”

I hold her hand in silence for a while. Then I whisper to Grace: “I really can't ask the police to arrest my brother. I'm sorry.”

“Then I'll move to my sister's place with the children. I'm so afraid of him now. His brain is crazy with shabu and he might harm us.”

In the prison of my vice

Soul crisscrossed with self-inflicted wounds

Despair is my only salve

And self-pity a daily indulgence

I AM HERE AT THE WAKE OF GRACE. She died three days ago from a final stroke. I have been here at the Magallanes chapel every night since Grace died to mourn her and to wait for Amading, whom I have not seen since the night of his arrest. My brother is an eerie presence at the wake because of his absence. Hardly anyone but Marla and I talk about him. Certainly not the relatives of Grace. The head of my clan, Tita Fely, who bought my mother's house many years ago, asks me where Amading is. I shrug my shoulders and she lets it go at that.

I have found out that Amading's children are doing reasonably well with their aunt. Carla has graduated at the top of her class in physical therapy and is about to leave to work in the U.S. Bong is working at Jollibee's while struggling to finish college at the U.S.T. I spend some time with them every night to encourage them in their struggle to carve out a normal life as orphans. They respond to me warmly, but quickly shut me out when I try to talk about their father. I finally ask Bong what he would do when his father shows up.

“Probably punch his face,” Bong says angrily.

“But Amading only breaks out of love,” I tell him.

“He cares only for himself. No father would abandon his family like that,” Bong instantly replies. He turns his back and walks toward his aunt.

The wake is finally over and Grace will be buried today. The mass has just finished and I suddenly see Amading standing at the end of the aisle, silently watching the mourners file past the open casket of Grace. He is wearing a pair of sunglasses and is dressed in a polo barong, dark pants, and shoes. As I approach him, I see that he has lost some more weight. He jabbers in a perturbing way when I greet him. He is high and very nervous about being here. I put my arm around him and walk him down the aisle to the casket. The file in front of the casket parts for us and the mourners quickly disappear into the seats. Only Amading and I are left in front of the casket. My brother just stares at his dead wife for a few minutes. Then he turns to leave and I follow him. Tita Fely nods at me as we walk past her. Everyone else averts his eyes. I ask Amading to join Marla and me in the car to go to the memorial park. He embraces me and sobs on my shoulder. He does not go to the burial.

Life is but a presence

While Death is an absence

In time's long arms

Only absences are present

I buried Amading last week. There was no wake. I took my brother straight from the emergency room of the PGH, where the doctor said he had died from malnutrition and heart failure from repeated use of shabu, to the funeral parlor. Only my wife and daughter joined me in the burial at the memorial park. I didn't have time to call our friends from the U.P. days. I don't know his addict friends. Carla is working in the States. Bong refused to come.

After the workers had finally finished preparing the grave and the priest had said his prayers and had left hurriedly, we had a few minutes to say our good byes to Amading while he lay in the open casket. Marla and Maya stood over the casket and looked at his face while they prayed silently. I wanted to pray too, but could not, since I don't believe and have forgotten all the Catholic rituals. I just touched the glass over his face and softly hummed the lullaby I used to sing to him when I put him to sleep as a little boy, when our parents were not home.

As the attendants piled the squares of grass on the grave, I noticed that the grass was scruffy and that the sparse leaves were growing in wayward directions. I wondered if I should have the grass replanted all over again with a variety that is stronger and that would grow more evenly in an upright direction.

From A Song For My Brother and Other Stories, by Antonio A. Hidalgo (Milflores, 2002).

MEMORIES OF FRANZ

by

Antonio A. Hidalgo

Franz Arcellana was my neighbor in the UP campus in Diliman in the '50s and '60s. My parents moved us there when I entered Grade Five and I left after finishing college, some graduate school, and teaching at the UP for a couple of years.

The campus was very different then. There were far fewer residents, students, faculty, and everything else. No traffic, hardly anyone on the streets, and lots of empty sawali houses left behind by the Americans, who had used the campus as a military base for some years after the Second World War.

We lived at the very edge of Area XIV, just a few steps away from Area XVII, where Franz and his family lived about a block away. Between the Arcellanas and us lived O.D. Corpuz, Pepe Encarnacion, the spouses Socrates of UP High, Favila of the Math Department, and Nepomuceno of the Accounting Department. Further down Area XVII lived the Abuevas, and way across the campus in Areas II and III lived the Manalangs and the family of NVM Gonzalez.

As a boy, I had no inkling of the importance of my older neighbors in the country's intellectual and cultural life. That many of them would later be honored as National Scientists and Artists for their achievements never entered my mind. They were just my neighbors who worked at their jobs to keep the UP community running. My father was an army officer who ran the ROTC. Franz taught English, as did NVM Gonzalez and Priscilla Manalang; Emerenciana Arcellana taught political science, as did O.D. Corpuz; Pepe Encarnacion taught economics, the spouses Socrates taught in the high school, Favila taught mathematics, Nepomuceno managed the accounting department, Billy Abueva taught fine arts and Pepe Abuva taught public administration. My friends and I were students. In the small and simple UP community then, we all had our roles and daily worked at them.

Over some years, images of my older neighbors were formed in my young mind out of their idiosyncrasies. Pepe Encarnacion liked to stroll leisurely to work in colorful Bermuda shorts, under a large umbrella in the hot sun, and with a bottle of San Miguel Pale Pilsen in his hand. Billy Abueva rode a Roman-style chariot pulled by a horse to his classes. It was a small chariot that he drove while standing, just like a Roman soldier in the movies. O.D. was still a soft-spoken scholar who talked carefully and deliberately. He had yet to release the inner drives that later led him to ride large, fast motorcycles while clad in jeans and a denim jacket. The Favilas always spoke in Ilocano in their house. NVM liked to play the violin late in the evening. My mother often hitched a ride with the campus garbage truck to the bus stop on her way to play mahjong. The spouses Arcellana occasionally had monumental shouting quarrels that we could hear across the street from the Area XVII playground where we would hang to secretly smoke our lungs out at night.

In high school, some of my neighbors in Areas XIV and XVII became my teachers. Mrs. Pineda taught me Filipino and gave me my first failing grade. A lifetime later, we met at a reunion and I proudly told her that I had written eight books in Filipino and that I might not have done it if she hadn't awakened my drive to learn the language with the failing grade. Mrs. Dela Cruz became my homeroom adviser and made me class president, only to be severely disappointed when I abdicated because it was interfering with my learning to play billiards. Mrs. Socrates entered me in a declamation contest and patiently coached my delivery of “Casey at the Bat” to the point of scrounging up a real baseball uniform with a cap and a bat. I placed third and I thought I disappointed her, too.

In college, I finally realized what important intellectuals some of my neighbors were and I sought them out to enroll in their classes. I took two subjects with Pepe Encarnacion and marveled at his wizardry in mathematical economics. I liked that he never hovered over us during exams and allowed us to refer to any book while taking them, for the answers to his questions could not be found in a book. I didn't like that he forbade us to smoke in class while he chain-smoked when lecturing. I also enrolled in NVM's class on fiction to learn from the master. In those days, NVM taught in the old style, by inflicting pain on bad writers. He singled out our least talented classmate and spent hours deconstructing a terrible paragraph she had written that described a canal. He summed up the exercise by telling her that he hoped she would become the best describer of canals in the world. I was so appalled that I stopped writing fiction for years. I understand that later, after NVM had taught for a number of years in the US , he became a great teacher of literature who inspired an entire generation of young writers.

I also enrolled in a graduate course in philosophy under Ricardo Pascual, another neighbor in Area XIV. He had an enigmatic style of teaching that hinted at, rather than told us, how to understand the core ideas of the great logical empiricists and logical positivists. He never gave straightforward lectures and liked to ask us a series of vaguely stated questions that he would never answer. It forced us to forge our own thoughts on the subject.

When I went into college debating, I often walked across the street at night to consult with O.D. Corpuz on my preparations for a forthcoming contest. He patiently took the time to help me, though sometimes I would interrupt a chess game he was playing with a faculty colleague. My teammate, Macapanton Abbas, and I went on to win the national championship for UP, and, this time, I didn't disappoint my mentor.

I didn't have the opportunity to study under Franz or Emerenciana Arcellana, though, by college, I was fully aware of their intellectual stature. However, at certain points in my life, Franz became more than just a neighbor to me.

In 1962, I was into student leadership and took the competitive exams for the Philippine Collegian , the UP student newspaper at the college level. Franz was the chair of the board of judges. He disqualified me from taking the exams because there was a rule that required that all examinees should not have a grade lower than 2.5 in their English classes (the Collegian was still in English then). I had gotten a grade of 3 in my Business Writing class.

Because he had known me as a boy, Franz went out of his way to personally explain to me why I had been disqualified. With some heat, I explained the unfairness of my situation to him. I told him that all my other grades in English were 1's, except for this class, that I had to take because it was required by my degree course, which was Business Administration, major in Economics. I reasoned that business writing had little to do with campus journalism. Also that it happened that this course was taught by only one faculty member who never gave any other grade than 3. He never failed anyone and never gave a grade higher than 3. Franz found it hard to believe that this was happening in his department. But he did check his colleague's grades and found that I was right.

Franz changed that particular rule the next year. However, by then I had already won the competitive exams for The Philippinensian , the UP yearbook, and was no longer eligible to take the Collegian exams. Franz was also the chair of the board of judges for the Philippinensian exams. I appreciated the decision of Franz to rectify the Collegian rules, though I could no longer benefit from it. The 1964 Philippinensian was my first book. It is probably the reason why I returned to writing and publishing books after many decades of working in other fields.

Another important interface I had with Franz was at one of the lowest points in my life. In 1967, I foresaw Marcos's drift to authoritarianism and wrote two essays on impending martial law for the Graphic magazine under the pseudonym of Ricardo Lawin. In 1970, while taking up my M.A. in Political Science in Ateneo, I left my cushy job at Esso Fertilizer and joined the activist movement against Marcos to help try to prevent martial law. I taught full-time at the Philippine College of Commerce, then the center of student activism, and became a staff writer of the left-wing Graphic magazine.

As we all know, Marcos declared martial law in 1972. The PCC was closed for several months and I learned from the only newspaper that was allowed then, The Daily Express , that I and about a dozen other faculty members had been fired from the PCC for subversion. The Graphic magazine was closed down and I was banned from writing in the media. The Manila Times , where my wife, Cristina, wrote regular movie reviews, was also shut down. And Cristina was summarily fired from teaching at the UST because of my political activism. From holding four full-time jobs between the two of us, my wife and I were suddenly jobless with a little daughter to feed. It was the bitter fruit of our defeat and the temporary Marcos triumph.

The first glimmer of hope in the bleak horizon that we faced then was the induction of Cristina and me into the UP Writers Club by Franz Arcellana in the same year that martial law was declared. This is an honor society open to all Filipino writers whose achievements merit membership, which is solely by invitation, much like in an academy of letters. It is not so easy to understand now how courageous an act of Franz this was. I had just been punished by the martial law government for my teaching and writing and banned from writing for the media. It was the early days of martial law and fear haunted all of us. No one knew how far martial law would go, or whether a bloodbath was in the offing. A sea change had been forcibly imposed on life in the Philippines and many of the things that we took for granted were taken away—the media was tightly muzzled, constitutional rights like the freedom of assembly, the Writ of Habeas Corpus, and free speech were revoked, major elected opposition politicians like Senators Ninoy Aquino and Pepe Diokno were arrested and jailed, a night-time curfew was imposed, and heavily-armed soldiers were highly visible in the streets. Yet Franz inducted Cristina and me into the UP Writers Club in a public ceremony during this dangerous time.

Franz was also instrumental in Cristina's getting a teaching job at the UP English Department—the first job either of us got after martial law. Franz gave us courage when we most needed it, for he showed us that all was not lost simply because martial law had been declared by a despot. He demonstrated to us that more sensible points of view continued to exist and he gave us hope that these would survive the dark decades that were coming.

THE LAST BATTLE OF MARTIN MAYO

by

Antonio A. Hidalgo

It was Monday. Felt like Sunday. Everyday felt like Sunday now. No schedules, no important things to do anymore. Just waiting. Waiting.

Martin Mayo stirred in his bed, but did not get up. He looked at the window. The curtains were closed. He imagined a bleak September morning out there. Overcast. Drizzling. He heard one of his cocks crow. He got up with much effort.

Passing by the living room on his way to the kitchen, he looked out the large French windows at the gentle slopes of his huge gamecock farm. He was right about the morning.

Susan, his cook and housekeeper, prepared breakfast for him as he sat, waiting, at the kitchen table. The smell of frying eggs and beef tapa sickened him. He ordered Susan to stop cooking breakfast and asked for a cup of chocolate instead. Even the chocolate turned his stomach. He almost retched. He thought ruefully about how he would rather take some Batangas barako coffee. But it would certainly make him vomit. He got up and left his unfinshed cup of chocolate.

He went into his bathroom to wash himself. Then to the bedroom to change from his pajamas. He put on a light blue Dunhill T-shirt, a dark blue pair of Givenchy slacks, midnight blue Christian Dior socks, and black A.Testoni walking shoes with serrated rubber soles. Dressing in expensive casual clothes gave him no more pleasure. It was a chore now.

On his way out, he noticed that his cell phone in the living room was off. He decided to leave it off.

He sat on the rattan rocking chair in his spacious porch and waited for Larry, his farm kapatas , to bring him Sultan. He heard some angry cackling from the scratch pens in the cockhouse. He briefly scolded Larry for being careless with Sultan when he came with the fighting cock.

Martin Mayo gazed intently at the squat, stocky, old cock, with motley white, blue, brown, and yellow feathers on his hackles, wings, and back. Sultan was lively this morning and greeted Martin with a series of full-throated crows.

“Are you very sure that Sultan doesn't mount the hens anymore?” Martin asked Larry for the umpteenth time.

“Yes Sir, I have watched him closely as you ordered. He is too old. We did not get a single chick from his hens this past year,” Larry replied.

“Okay, move Sultan to the fly pen now,” Martin said, as he got up from the rocking chair to follow Larry to the fly pens.

Sultan tried to hit and peck Larry when the kapatas tried to get him from his tie-cord on the lawn. Martin went up to Sultan and gently picked him up. Sultan let him do it without a fuss. Martin brought Sultan to the fly pen himself, with Larry following them.

Once in the fly pen, Sultan immediately flew up the five-foot wooden roost, popped his wings hard and crowed. This gratified Martin, and he said to Larry: “Good, good. Sultan is starting to behave like a younger cock now. Keep up the regimen of transferring him every hour from scratch pen to fly pen to tie-cord and back again. This will stimulate him to keep moving and exercising. How long have you been doing this?”

“Everyday, Sir, since you told me to do it three weeks ago. I spend most of my time with Sultan now and let the other boys condition the rest of the cocks. Are we going to fight Sultan? He's about nine years old, you know.”

“Maybe. Of course, I know how old Sultan is. I looked it up in my breeding notebooks. Pay attention to his special diet. Are you mixing the powdered vitamins and minerals with his grains? And the fresh meat and calf manna? Don't feed him too much. Just one whiskey jigger-full per meal. Have you got that?”

“Of course, Sir. But it's going to be hard to get Sultan in shape to fight.”

Martin smiled at Larry. “I know. But he deserves an honorable and dignified death as a great warrior. I don't want him to just waste away from old age like a pensiyonado . You understand?”

He did not wait for an answer. Martin walked slowly back to the sprawling ranch house to take his usual late morning nap on the rocking chair on the porch. And to gather his strength to take some lunch. His damned bad liver had killed all his appetites, even his desire for women.

Martin thought of his father and his brothers and sisters as he tried to nap.

MARTIN WAS ENTERING his father's old mansion in Malolos. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell emanating from the perenially damp stones and mortar of the first floor as he went up the elaborate staircase. He tried to step lightly as he entered the upstairs living room, to minimize the familiar creaking of the three-foot wide polished narra floorboards. When he passed the windows of the living room, he was careful to look up, not down. He could not bear to look at the servants' quarters below, where he had lived briefly as a young boy, while his father verified the story of the twelve-year-old boy who had suddenly appeared at his doorstep.

Martin's father, Ambrosio, the five-term assemblyman and congressman from Bulacan, had just died from a heart attack at the age of sixty-nine. The entire clan was assembled for the ninth day ritual. Martin had just won his first term as congressman in Batangas and was feeling proud of having lived up to his famous father's name.

“You hurt Papa very much when you refused his help in your campaign,” Ernesto, his oldest half-brother said quietly to him in a corner of the living room, away from the other guests. “He loved you too, you know, even if you quarreled with him all the time.

“Anyway, I have met with the other brothers and sisters and we have agreed to share the inheritance with you. We can only offer you a half share. Papa spent a lot in his later campaigns and there's not much left. I hope you understand.”

The words cut Martin deeply—almost as if Ernesto had used a knife. Martin averted his eyes to hide the hurt. He said he would consult his wife, Conching. He came back to Ernesto and said: “Thank you very much for your offer, Ernesto. Now I finally know what I am worth—exactly half of each of you. But no thanks. Conching and I are doing very well and we don't need it. Good night.”

Martin stormed out of the house, dragging Conching by the arm. In the car, he vented his anger with expletives directed at his legitimate half-brothers and sisters. When Conching tried to calm him down, he sarcastically insulted her for being the eldest legitimate daughter of the powerful and wealthy former Senator Mamerto Lacson of Bacolod City.

The affront had stayed in his heart all his life. In later years, whenever his profligate brothers and sisters came to him for help when on the verge of bankruptcy, he was careful to always be generous with them. And never to speak a word about his hurt.

“Sir, Mr. Tony Ayuyao is here to see you.” It was Susan gently shaking his shoulder as Martin dozed in the rocking chair.

“Oh, good, good. Show him in. We'll talk here on the porch.”

“Good morning, Vice President. I heard that you're preparing to fight your cocks again,” Tony said as he shook Martin's hand. A tall, muscular man in his forties, Tony exuded strength and confidence despite his severely thinning hair.

“You know, Tony, I've missed it a great deal, the cockfighting. It has always been my way to relax. Even when I was a young boy in Mindoro, barely surviving as a bootblack.”

“How are your cocks doing now? I'm breeding the two trios you gave me and hope to get a bumper crop of chicks this year.”

“Not too well, I'm afraid. I've fought seven cocks this month. Six lost. I'm well over the hill now, and so is my breed.

“Lunch is ready, Tony. Let's talk business while we eat.”

At the dining room table, Martin managed to swallow several mouthfuls with great effort, before he turned to business.

“I called you here to organize a press conference for me.”

“Oh? What's the topic? Are you going back to politics?”

“No, no. I want to announce that I'm resigning as Chairman of the Molave Bank because I'm terminally ill with cancer.”

Tony was silent for a few seconds, absorbing the shocking news about his friend. “Tell me straight, Martin. How bad is it?”

“Very bad. All my doctors at the Stanford University Hospital and at the Makati Medical Center agree that I have only two to ten months to live. It seems that the cancer developed in my lungs and that it has now spread to my liver. I want people to know. I think it's my duty after nearly a lifetime as a public figure.”

“I agree. Senate President Montinola's refusal to confirm that he was seriously ill caused a lot of instability before he died.”

“Can you handle the press conference? I'll pay your fees.”

“No fees, Vice President. It's the least I can do, after you gave my ad firm that large contract during your recent campaign. I remember your remarkable press conference after you lost the presidential elections. The one where you said that you felt like going out on a deserted beach in Mindoro and swimming into the raging sea to let the powerful waves toss you to and fro like a piece of driftwood. That was a bit poetic. Can you be as candid as that in this conference?”

“I'll try. What have I got to lose? Maybe I'll tell them that I don't want to lie in state at Malacañang because politicians will only deliver speeches full of lies over my casket. That I would rather be put in a cockpit, so my fellow cockers can pay their genuine last respects. Or in Mindoro ….” Martin said with mischievous eyes.

Tony laughed. “That's good, Martin. Very good. Consider it done. Let's do it on Wednesday next week at the Manila Pen in Makati, okay?”

“Fine.”

“What will you do now?” Tony asked with concern.

“I really don't know,” Martin said candidly as he paused from the conversation to ponder something.

WHAT SHOULD HE DO?

Martin had already pondered over Tony's question for the past month, since he had discovered that he was dying. He thought of all the overwhelming questions haunting the country, issues that he had fought over—development paths, decentralization of political and economic power, the role of civil society in governance, protecting the environment, our country's role in Asia, all that jazz—and concluded that they no longer concerned him, for he could not do anything about them in the few months he had left.

He turned to history to comfort him with the thought that mankind would continue to march forward, regardless of what happened to him. It was a laughable exercise—he spent all of two hours in his library, trying to read Thucydides and Herodotus and O.D. Corpus, and got bored stiff. He concluded that a scholar he was not, though he had been a good student in law school.

What should he do?

Tony had moved to the French windows to look at the cocks on tie-cords in the yard when Martin finally spoke: “I guess I'll put my accounts and land titles in order for my children. There's the press conference. I'd also like to spend some time with good friends like you.

“And maybe I'll fight my favorite cock, Sultan—who is an eleven-time winner but who is also nine years old. That's like being seventy or eighty years old for humans. He is my greatest cock, you know. The very best in more than thirty years of breeding.”

Tony returned to the table and said: “I like the thing about Sultan. I will be there to watch the fight. Tell me when and where.”

“Of course,” Martin said with a smile as he motioned for Susan to take Tony to the door so he could rest.

As he lay in bed trying to sleep, he thought of Conching.

“YOU LYING PRICK!” she screamed at him as they rode in the back of his Mercedes Benz 500 SEL on their way to a rally in Lucena City, when he was campaigning for Vice President. “You told me you were in Pangasinan last night. But Nanette Salvatierra saw you last night at the Spices restaurant at the Pen, having a lovey-dovey dinner with a pretty young woman!”

“You believe that old gossip, Nanette?” he asked.

She ignored the question. “What do you tell those twits to get them to bed? I'll bet you get their sympathy with that campaign story about roaming the forests of Mindoro to look for fruits and edible leaves for you and your labandera mother.

“I can't take this anymore, Martin. You can't help having your mother's genes. You will always be a cheating, lying, little bastard, no matter how far you go in politics. I'm going home to my people in Bacolod, who are civilized.”

Martin slapped her hard on the face to shut her up. She screamed and it alarmed Capt. Berroya, who was driving, and Lt. Espinosa, who was in the front seat. Berroya pulled over to the side of the highway. The trailing Pajero carrying Martin's security escorts stopped behind them.

Martin angrily told Berroya and Espinosa to mind their own business and to continue driving to Lucena City.

He had regretted hitting Conching then. He regretted it now. But when she was jealous, Conching could often wrench open the trap door in his mind that he had so carefully constructed in order to succeed in getting people to trust him, in order to succeed, period. All the black garbage within burst forth when this happened.

He also regretted that he was sleeping at the Lipa farm with a young and beautiful movie starlet when Conching died suddenly from a massive stroke in their Dasmariñas house three years ago.

He missed her, and wished that she were still alive so that he could, at least, attempt to achieve some kind of closure on that part of his life.

The press conference the following week was a great success. Tony had arranged it impeccably. Martin performed like the professional politician that he was. And the story hit all the front pages of the major dailies in English and Filipino.

Martin had to shut off his cell phone permanently after the story came out. He also instructed his former staff members at the bank and the servants at his large house in Dasmarinas Village in Makati not to divulge the location of his Lipa farm. Too many political acquaintances wanted to waste his precious time.

His lawyer, Atty. Ancheta Catindig, worked efficiently in the next two weeks putting his estate in order. When he had finished, Martin signed the necessary papers with relief. This left him with only the occasional chat with an old friend that he would summon to Lipa, when he felt strong enough. And the preparations for the final fight of Sultan.

Martin felt well that day, so he personally sparred Sultan against a mediocre stag. He insisted on putting the gloves on Sultan, even if his hands shook a little. And he did the tailing and pecking to warm up the cocks before pitting them.

Sultan still moved unusually fast, for his age, and hit the stag solidly on the first fly and immediately followed this up with a murderous ground shuffle. He sidestepped perfectly when the stag rushed him after the shuffle. Sultan hit the stag with three more solid blows on the back before he tired and got hit on the head when he lost his focus. Martin immediately stepped in to stop the sparring after Sultan got hit.

“It's unbelievable. The old cock can still fight. Had we heeled them with knives, the stag would be dead now,” remarked Larry, who had handled the stag.

“Yes, but so would Sultan. He got hit at the end. He's not ready. He never got hit before. He needs another month,” observed Martin. “Give Sultan a young hen in his fly pen this afternoon. See if he mounts her. It might speed up his metabolism.”

Martin went back to the ranch house to rest. He dozed fitfully that afternoon as the chemotherapy was upsetting even his pissing and bowel movements. In his waking moments, he reminisced of his, and Sultan's, youthful battles.

HE WAS TWENTY-ONE and fighting in an outdoor boxing ring during the Taytay fiesta to augment the meager allowance his father provided him. His fighting name was Fancy Dan and his opponent was Fighting Marlon, a taller boxer with an upper body chiseled from pure muscle, a narrow, hard waist, and strong legs. Marlon came after him from round one, showing disdain for his squat, stocky build and his shifty style, and hit him in the face with a good left hook and short right straight during the first minute.

His knees wobbled and he hung onto Marlon's shoulders, as he smelled the pungent odors in the ring from the sweat, the cracked and dirty leather gloves, and the resin on their shoes. He resolved to turn Marlon's cockiness to his advantage. He dissembled being more hurt than he actually was to encourage Marlon to rush him carelessly. Marlon fell for the trick and Martin frustrated him by slipping his blows while hitting him with off-rhythm punches. He hurt Marlon enough in the fourth and final round to win the decision and the five-hundred-peso purse.

It was 1990 and Sultan was barely a year old, fighting for the first time at the Roligon cockpit in Paranaque in a hack fight against a beautiful mahogany red stag of Esting Abello from Bacolod. Esting's stag was so much taller and finer-looking, and he strutted with so much authority in the pit, that the odds were ten to six against the short-feathered, off-color, coarse-featured, and strangely quiet Sultan.

The Bacolod red flew to the lights on the first pitting and Sultan only stared and waited without moving from his mark. The red rushed Sultan two more times, each time lowering his flight in an attempt to reach Sultan with his blows. Sultan still did not move, he just turned to face the red on each pass. The red was fooled by Sultan's dissembling, and mistook his deliberate immobility for fear. He rushed Sultan carelessly on his fourth pass. He came in too low. Sultan jumped barely a foot above the ground and sank his slasher blade deep into the red's back to win with one blow.

After three months of conditioning under his strict supervision, Martin finally decided that Sultan was ready for his last battle.

Larry tried to dissuade him: “But, Sir, Sultan still won't mount a hen. I've given him three of our best pullets and he doesn't show any interest at all.”

“That's natural at his age, isn't it?” Martin replied.

“How about stamina? We know that Sultan is still strong and reasonably fast. But can he last in a tough fight against a top opponent?”

“Character will tell, when everything is on the line,” Martin said as he walked away from Larry.

He carefully selected the date of the derby—December 12. This would be four days after his last chemotherapy, so he wouldn't feel too sick. He also painstakingly chose the venue—the Roligon cockpit. This was the closest major cockpit to his Lipa farm and he was a pillar in its cockers' association. He informed his friends of the fight and he made it a point to call Tony Ayuyao himself.

Martin meticulously supervised the final conditioning of Sultan. He observed Larry carefully, to make sure that his kapatas put his heart into preparing Sultan, despite the reservations in his mind. He watched every feeding and personally sparred Sultan two more times, before he tapered off the cock's training regimen.

Martin had new prescription glasses made so he could heel Sultan himself, though he had not tied a knife on a fighting cock in decades. He often practiced heeling his cocks with slasher knives a week before the fight. He supervised Larry's cleaning and sharpening of Sultan's own special slasher knife.

Martin was rather preoccupied the night before Sultan's last fight. He hardly touched his dinner. He tried calling up Tony, but Tony wasn't at home. He retired to his bedroom early.

But he couldn't sleep. He lay awake in bed and thought of Sultan's greatest victory. And his own.

SULTAN WAS TWO YEARS OLD and at his prime on his fourth fight—an international derby at the Araneta Coliseum. This one was for all the marbles—the pot of a million pesos and the title of Cockfighting Champion of the World—as Martin's entry had won all seven previous fights and the final fight—Sultan—was against a five-time winner imported Sweater Grey of Ray Jumper, a leading American breeder whose entry had also won all of its previous fights in the week-long derby. Jumper's confident grey was cackling in derision at Sultan and the odds were eight to twelve for the grey when the cocks were pitted.

The Sweater Grey measured Sultan perfectly on his first pass and jumped straight to where Sultan stood, his left leg viciously slashing its knife. Sultan turned ever so slightly to the left and got a billhold on the grey's hackles as he passed. He flipped the grey on his back and quickly and cleanly slashed his throat to win the world title.

It was late 1986 and the widow of the martyred Jesus Garcia, Mary, had just assumed the Presidency after the dictator Floro Santos had fled the country. Martin was her Secretary of the Environment and Natural Resources in her revolutionary government, by virtue of his close friendship with Mary's late husband, who had become a national hero.

Martin was pacing the carpeted corridor fronting the Rizal study on the second floor of Malacañang palace.

“Secretary, the President is playing mahjong and doesn't want to be disturbed. Is your business very important?” Maj. Santos, one of her aides, whispered to him.

“Tell her it concerns the future of the country. I will only need ten minutes of her time,” Martin answered curtly.

Maj. Santos showed him into the study after a few minutes. Mary got up from the huge desk at the end of the long room to shake his hand.

“Martin, how nice to see you again,” She said cheerfully. “Sit down. What can I do for you? I haven't much time as I'm meeting a delegation of U.S. businessmen led by Ambassador McGrath in a few minutes.”

“President Mary, I have drafted a presidential decree for your signature which will ban all logging in the country. It will have the binding effect of a law, as we are in a revolutionary mode of government. Please sign it. It will stop, once and for all, the denudation of our forests and the attendant flooding which kills thousands every year. It will be a major achievment of your administration and you will be remembered forever as the president who solved a stubborn problem that the dictator and the other presidents before him could not solve,” Martin said quickly.

Mary Garcia thought for a moment before saying: “I'm sure you know what you're doing, for you're an old hand at politics. Will we get much flak from the businessmen?”

“Not any more than we're getting now. And the press and the NGOs will love you for it.”

“Okay. I'll sign the original now. We'll do it again tomorrow for the press and the TV. My press office will make the announcement,” Mary said while she signed the decree.

“Just like that,” Martin thought happily to himself as he descended the staircase of the palace. “No discussions, no acrimonious articles in the newspapers, no marching in the streets. Thank heavens for mahjong.”

A few days later, Martin read a columnist who attacked him for his effrontery in banning logging after he had practically denuded the entire province of what is now Saranggani in partnership with Governor Chua in the days of the dictator, when Martin had left politics in disgust over the declaration of martial law, after serving two terms as congressman for Batangas and one abbreviated term as senator. He had lost all faith in the future of the country then and cared only about enriching himself. The same columnist also accused him of having used his gains from illegal logging to buy his thousand-hectare farm in Camarines Norte and his slightly smaller one in Mindoro. That same day, his own former partner, now citizen Washington Chua, sent him veiled death threats.

He did not care. He had just won a major victory—quickly and cleanly.

Martin got a lot of sympathy at the Roligon cockpit the evening of the derby. Everyone had read or heard about his terminal illness. He looked terrible. He had lost thirty pounds and most of his previously thick white hair on his head and beard. It didn't take much to imagine his suffering. Martin gracefully accepted all the expressions of regret.

After an hour of watching the fights, he retreated to his cockhouse. He sipped orange juice while he waited for Sultan's fight. Larry heeled and pitted the other cocks and Martin did not bother to watch their fights. Two lost and one won. As Martin had requested, Sultan's was the last fight of his entry.

When Sultan's fight was finally called by the pit runner, Martin took complete charge. He gently eased Sultan out of the holding stall and gingerly put him into the small scratch pen to adjust to the bright lights. Martin did the teasing with a catch cock to warm up Sultan's muscles. Then he picked up Sultan to officially weigh him in front of his opponent's owner, Joey Almendras from Davao City, in the heeling room. The weights of both cocks were in order and Martin heeled Sultan.

There was a lusty cheer from the crowd as he entered the pit and he acknowledged it by waving both hands above his head. Joey Almendras was not cheered by the crowd when he entered with a pure white cock. Martin scrutinized Joey's cock carefully as he was tailed with a catch cock. He was well-conditioned and at the prime age of two years. He had the natural grace of the Zamboanga breed that Joey fought. He was also taller and better proportioned than the squat and stocky Sultan. Martin was satisfied that he was a worthy opponent for Sultan's last fight.

Martin was very careful in pitting Sultan. He backed up all the way to the pit wall before letting Sultan go, to give him as much room as possible for maneuver.

The first minute of the fight was like entering a time warp for Martin. Sultan was simply fabulous and fought like he did the last time, five years ago. Instead of waiting for his opponent to break first, as he often did, Sultan risked all by meeting the white head-on in the first fly. The white broke too high for Sultan, so he quickly slid just under the white and stabbed him on the right leg from below. The white could not parry the blow as he had never been hit from below with such speed and accuracy before.

The white limped badly when both cocks hit the ground and the crowd roared its approval of Sultan's magnificent maneuver. Sultan alighted lightly and instantly faked a blow to the white's head. When the white dodged to his right to avoid the blow, Sultan got him in a flash with a punch to the white's left side.

The white reeled from the powerful blow, but Sultan refused to come in with a killing shuffle. He backed away instead and they circled each other for a few moments. The white decided to take a risk, as he was behind in the fight. He faked a thrust at Sultan's chest, but Sultan was not taken in and he stood his ground. So the white really went for Sultan's chest. It was a mistake, for Sultan quickly flew just high enough to be able to jab the white on the back as he missed lunging at Sultan. It looked like a killing blow, at last, and the crowd roared once more. But Sultan's slasher caught on a bone and he was unable to quickly pull it out.

It was the stroke of luck the worthy white hended—for Sultan to be momentarily immobile and off-balance. The white instantly turned on his back, forcibly pulling out Sultan's knife, and slashed Sultan across his bottom below the lower end of the breast bone, spilling Sultan's bloody guts in little pieces on the hard earthen pit floor.

Martin blanched, for he knew that this was the most painful wound that could possibly be inflicted on a cock in a slasher fight. Even the gamest breeds of American fowl had been known to stop fighting or even run with such a terrible wound. It did not kill instantly, but sadistically afforded a cock a few minutes more of sputtering life in unbelievably intense pain. And Sultan had not been bred for gameness, but for intelligence and wiliness. Martin prayed that Sultan would not die in shame by quitting.

Sultan could not stand from the pain of his chopped-up intestines. He laboriously dragged himself with his wings to the white, as moving his legs intensified his terrible pain. The white had also collapsed on the ground from his many wounds, but he raised his head to peck as Sultan approached.

The downed cocks fought desperately with wing blows and pecks for several minutes more. But they could no longer kill, for their legs were gone. During the frequent face-to-face careos by the referee, Sultan always pecked first and more aggressively. It often seemed as if Sultan might win the fight on sheer courage and determination, despite suffering from excruciating pain. He fought with such a clarity of will that it almost seemed possible that his bravery might momentarily staunch the bleeding in his exposed entrails. But he died just one minute before the clock signalled the ten-minute fight limit. The white won purely on the luck and staying power of his youth.

The crowd clapped and cheered lustily at the awesome display of courage by both warriors, but especially by Sultan, who had fought on without any hesitation, and with an admirably calm dignity, despite his terrible wound. Martin jumped to his feet and clapped his hands with all the strength he could muster.

Then he knelt reverently beside the fallen Sultan and gently picked him up. Martin gruffly waved away Larry, who tried to help. He insisted on covering Sultan's bloody knife with its scabbard himself.

He proudly raised Sultan's limp head as he carried him out of the pit. He looked up at the crowd as he reached the pit door. They had gone about their business of paying and collecting bets and were no longer looking at the pit.

Martin wished the same cheering crowd would watch as he grappled with the excruciating pain on his deathbed.

From Cockfighting Stories, by Antonio A. Hidalgo (Milflores, 2000)

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