1 Death Squad
We were huddled in my uncle's vacation home, a bamboo slat house with a thatched roof overlooking Manila Bay. My uncle Lauro had joined us for a private family meeting as had my cousin Bartello, a military captain who would smuggle me through the airport for my escape to Spain.
"I can't do this," I protested, trying to control myself.
"You know you have to, Jaime," my father said. "They'll never leave you alone."
"But what about Marina? I can't just…"
My father chopped the air impatiently. "I know how close you two are. But there's nothing you can do for her. Your sister is recovering in the convent. The important thing is for you to get out now."
I turned to Bartello who nodded in agreement. "Your father is right, Jaime. Your life is in real danger here. Already, I heard rumors General Sanchez has sent out a death squad for you. We don't have much time."
I shook my head bitterly. "His son rapes my sister and I'm the one being punished."
"No one is blaming you, Jaime," Bartello said. "You were right to defend your sister. I would've done the same thing. But his son Pancho is in critical condition. That's all that matters to him." Bartello put a hand on my shoulder. "He can't win in court, Jaime. He knows that. But believe me, he'll try to get you another way."
I trudged over to the window. The sun was setting, a glowing ball of orange hovering over the flickering bay. I could see the fishnets in the water held up by bamboo poles and the grass houses on stilts that served as guardhouses. Pig pens at sea, I had called them as a child.
I took a deep breath and smelled the salt air redolent of fish and dried seaweed. Not long ago, I used these private moments to daydream about my upcoming internship in Spain, a country I longed to see. It was a yearning dating back to my childhood when my great grandfather, a transplanted Spaniard, would put me on his lap and tell me vivid tales about Andalusia and its scorching landscape, and always, he would recount those stories with a sense of magic. I remembered listening to him for hours, hanging on his every word. I loved the Castilian sunsets he conveyed and the gypsy wails he mimicked. I loved the Moorish castles he described complete with turrets and parapets. But now, that dream was gone. Somehow, it didn't seem important anymore.
"Time to go, Jaime," Bartello said.
I turned to him. His left eye twitched. I knew he was concerned. So many things could go wrong at the airport, so many unforeseen events.
"Go see your mother," my father said, nodding toward the den where she was packing a suitcase. She still wore the wrinkled summer dress she had snatched from the closet when they hustled me out of the house in haste. Her legs were bare as were her feet. Despite a touch of gray hair creeping up on her temples, she was still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
"Mama," I said.
She pretended to be busy with the suitcase, trying to zip it close.
"Stay out of trouble in Spain, Jaime," she said, holding back her tears. "Start a new life there. It is what your sister would want." She reminded me that life in Spain would be different, that everyone would be a stranger. "You'll be all alone. If something happens, you'll have no one to turn to."
I took her in my arms and felt her shiver. "Don't worry, Mama. I'll be okay." At the time, I was unaware of the prophetic significance of her words. In a way, I was scared. I had never been out of the country; never been with anyone but my own kind.
A footstep rapped behind me. "We better go, Jaime," Bartello said from the door. He had strapped on his Browning and was cradling an M-16 rifle in the crook of his arm. "Colonel Villegas just called from the airport. Everything is set."
2 Bilbao, Spain
The Exile
They assassinated the governor the day I flew into town. They did it with a car bomb planted near the gate of his house. It not only killed him, but his wife, his dog, his two kids, and the maids. It was with this atmosphere of siege that I stepped into the terminal in Bilbao greeted by a surge of anxious faces. Everywhere I turned, I saw armed guards.
A bearded man shouldered through the crowd. "Are you Miguel Ruiz?" he demanded, pronouncing Ruiz with a lot of rolling R's.
"No, I--I'm Jaime Aragon," I said haltingly. "From Manila."
I didn't understand it then but I guess he and his tall friend had mistaken me for a second intern arriving from Venezuela. I tried to explain who I was, but they waved it off, took my bags, and hustled me off to a waiting sedan. I knew something was brewing the minute we stepped out of the terminal, for I saw men in combat fatigues scrambling around the loading zones. A profusion of red lights was flashing. An armored truck rolled by and stopped fifty feet away, machinegun swiveling.
"We better get out of here," the bearded Spaniard said, frowning at the chaos. "I do not like the looks of this." He yanked open the car door and ushered me in. "Listo?" he asked his lanky companion.
"Si," the man answered. Cautiously, we pulled away from the curb, swung into the driving lane, and coasted along the police cordon. No one spoke as more armored trucks rolled in. It was only when we had gone a mile out of view of the airport that the bearded man looked at me through the rearview mirror. "Sorry about the rush. I'm Jose Mari, president of the training program." He nodded to his friend. "And this is Iñaki, your reception officer."
"What was that all about?" I asked Iñaki who had turned from the passenger seat to shake my hand. It was the first time I noticed his face: bony, hollow, fronted by a toothy grin.
"They assassinated the governor today. Car bomb in an auto." He threw up his hands. "His entire family, boom!" He added, "Ah, but not to worry, amigo. This is routine, si? Bombs go off all the time in Bilbao."
Great, I thought. I wondered what other surprises awaited me in this great city. "Do they know who did it?"
He shrugged. "ETA, most likely. They have many sympathizers here, even in the university. You don't have terrorists in Manila, yes?"
"Only in Mindanao. Abu Sayef. But we have private armies that fight all the time."
"Private army? What is that?"
"Oh, they're these goons hired by politicians. They get into firefights during the elections and throw grenades at each other."
Iñaki gave me a funny look but didn't say anything.
We lapsed into silence, lost in our own thoughts, and it was only when we were well on our way to Bilbao that Jose Mari spoke again, this time in Spanish. "Estas muy temprano, eh. You are too early. Your internship doesn't start for four weeks." He shook his head. "You took a big chance. We haven't even received the contract from the company." He had to repeat himself a few times before I understood.
"Ah, si. I thought I'd explore the city first." An arrow of doubt shot through my chest. Get a grip, I told myself. It will be hard enough as it is.
At this point, my preoccupations were quickly forgotten, replaced by a more immediate one. Jose Mari was now driving like a maniac, careening down the hill at eighty miles per hour, hardly slowing down for the hairpin turns. I grabbed the armrest in panic while Iñaki, seated in front, thought nothing of his friend's acrobatic driving.
We raced down a long series of switchbacks and soon, metropolitan Bilbao came into view with its collection of towering smokestacks. I gave a sigh of disappointment as I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I expected a quaint European city with ornate buildings and winding canals. What I found was an industrial metropolis crowded with factories billowing black soot into the red sunset. A mocha-colored river stretched out for miles, cutting through the city like a Moorish scimitar. Along the piers rose giant cranes, some as high as eight and nine stories under which were ships in various stages of manufacture.
"The boarding house is past that bridge," Iñaki said, sweeping an arm across the scintillating river. "Beautiful, eh?"
I nodded, too anesthetized to respond.
The apartment building was a weather-stained four-story structure on a hill overlooking the manicured lawns of the Universidad de Deusto. I noticed the pockmarks on the walls, as if someone had let loose on it with an automatic. On a corner wall was a dark scorch mark that reminded me of a kerosene blast.
"Don't worry about those," Iñaki said.
I couldn't take my eyes off them.
The building's owner, Doña Moncha, was a matronly woman of about forty-five with dyed-blond hair--black roots showing--and a winning smile. "Ven, ven," she said as she waddled through a boxy lobby, past a row of mailboxes, into a stairwell that had little light.
There were no elevators in the building, so we trotted up the rickety stairway barely wide enough to accommodate the señora. Its walls were so old I could see the uneven surface of the plaster, the festoons of peeling paint, and brown blotches of stain where the heavy Bilbao rains had seeped through the cracks in the wall. After much grunting and wheezing on the señora's part, we reached the fourth floor. Thank God! I thought she'd keel over with a coronary.
"Esto es tuyo. This is your apartment," she said, unlocking the door. She handed me the key.
We entered a flat with a long hallway wallpapered in paisley, accented by a disturbing poster depicting men being executed by firing squad. "Goya," the señora volunteered. Somewhere in the flat, a radio blared. She pointed an arm through the gloom, two fingers extended, as though directing traffic at the Gran Via. "Straight ahead," she announced, marching me to the first bedroom on the right, a twelve-by-twelve-foot cell containing a desk, a battered oak armoire, and two twin beds with plaid bedspreads. I caught the faintest odor in the room. Like burned tea leaves. A square-faced blond man was stretched out on one bed reading a Viking comic book. He looked up and smiled at me with bloodshot eyes.
"This is your roommate. Bjorn Brondheim. From Sweden," Doña Moncha said.
"Hola," the guy said haltingly. Why did I have the feeling that was the only Spanish word he knew? But I shrugged it off and parried with a "Hola" of my own.
A young woman came to the door yawning sleepily. She had high cheekbones, a hooked nose, and an intriguing scar on the left side of her cheek. Dressed only in a long tee shirt, she had the most golden skin I had ever seen. Her white teeth glowed under the dark tan. "Por Dios, what's all this noise?" She rubbed her eyes and stretched. Pronounced nipples jutted against the thin nightshirt.
I pulled my gaze away.
"Your new roommate has arrived," Doña Moncha exclaimed. "Jaime, I'd like you to meet Elena. From Brazil."
Elena smiled. "Bienvenido. Welcome to Bilbao." She jerked a thumb at the partition wall. "I'm right next door. But not to worry. Except for the radio, I don't make a lot of noise."
"Y Allison. Donde esta?" Doña Moncha asked.
Elena rolled her eyes. "Ay, señora. You should know by now. She's on a date. She said she's going to be a little late."
"Again? With whom?" the señora demanded.
"With this guy. Francisco. You know, he's a--"
"I know who he is," the señora cut in. She grimaced in disgust. "She does nothing but date. She should concentrate on her work if you ask me." Without another word, the señora whipped around and left.
I looked at Bjorn and Elena who shrugged at the señora's choleric outburst. Oh-oh, trouble in paradise.
3 Bloodshed at the Plaza
"Jaime, wake up!" Doña Moncha scolded. "Por dios. It's already ten."
"Oh, Moncha. Can I have a few more minutes?" I begged.
"Ay, que gambero." She took Bjorn's pillow and bashed me over the head with it. I sat up dazedly and mumbled a protest to the juvenile giggles of her nieces.
"Bueno, I'm up, I'm up."
Two weeks had passed and I had sunk into a brooding mood. The uncertainty of my internship had begun to gnaw on me. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. Each night in my room became a battle with the bed sheets. It was during these moments of self-doubt that I became terribly homesick. I missed my friends, my family. Twice, I went through the exercise of packing my bags only to dejectedly concede defeat. The reality was, I couldn't go home.
Doña Moncha's constant ravings became a morning ritual. Each day at ten, she would barge into my room and eject me from bed so she could clean it. Always, her teenage nieces would be with her and a hired maid named Maricarmen who was working the menial job of house-cleaning to put herself through college.
Maricarmen, at eighteen, was an eyeful: long sweeps of raven hair, dark onyx eyes, and a sharp thin nose that made her look prim but did not detract in any way from her classic Iberian beauty. She often gave me oblique glances while cleaning my room such that I began to have wild fantasies about her: Maricarmen dusting the window in the buff, Maricarmen naked in bed with her legs spread wide, Maricarmen playing with herself. Testosterone levels surged. Filthy musings surfaced in my mind.
One day, Maricarmen caught me with a morning erection as I got out of bed and quipped, "Que es eso?" pointing at the puptent. To my embarrassment, the girls burst out laughing, pitifully deflating my manhood. Thank God Doña Moncha had been there to chase them out of the room or I wouldn't have been able to endure their ridicule.
"You're too shy, Jaime," the señora commented. "You're just like that Filipino intern who stayed here last year. A silent type. Kept to himself a lot."
I knew exactly how he felt. "Filipinos are a shy people, señora. I guess it came with all those years of being colonized."
The señora considered me with rippled brows. "Yes…maybe so. But you're different, Jaime. Much different from any boarder I've had. There's something about you. When you first walked in that door, I sensed you carrying a burden. Like you're running away." She narrowed her eyes. "And you're interesting. You look South American, but you also look Asian. African even. And you have this presence…silent…like a volcano."
Yeah, calm outside but bubbling inside. I wondered if she might be psychic. As for the way I looked, the lineage had never been clear on my father's side. My fifth great-grandfather was rumored to have been an Italian actor who entertained the royal household in Madrid before coming to the Philippines with the ruling governor of the colony. I was supposed to be the product of several generations of intermarriages of which included a Chinese merchant, an Indian trader from New Delhi, a renegade pirate from Borneo, and a long line of Spanish and Filipino civil guards among others. Of course, I didn't know how much of it was concocted by my grandfather who had a habit of changing his story every so often to suit his mood.
With everyone at work, Doña Moncha and Maricarmen became my daytime companions. I could never thank them enough for what they did for me. They not only taught me the subtleties of the Spanish language, but gave me lessons about the Basques and their customs, which somewhat prepared me for the violence that would later manifest itself.
One sunny day, I accompanied the señora and Maricarmen to the Bilbao marketplace. It was to be my first glimpse of the volatile situation in the Vascongadas. We had boarded the 14 Marquina bus to downtown Bilbao and were walking down a main thoroughfare toward Casco Viejo when we came upon a caravan of gray vans parked along Avenida Torino. There must have been fifty of them with turreted tops and bodies shaped like armored trucks. I asked Doña Moncha about them and she whispered, "La Guardia Civil. Muy mal, eh.'' She shook a stubby finger.
A shiver rippled through me. The Guardia Civil. I had heard about them. The Spanish version of the special police, they had the reputation of being ruthless enforcers for the Madrid government. I scanned the street uneasily but didn't find them anywhere. I did sense edginess in the pedestrians. It showed in the way they walked, the way they scurried along the sidewalk flinging nervous glances behind them. And as we drew nearer the plaza, which we must cross to reach the marketplace, I heard the loud chanting of many people. The señora and Maricarmen picked up the pace, and I hurried to catch up.
We turned the corner and there they stood, throngs and throngs of them, at least ten thousand strong, waving banners and placards, taunting the police with chants of disdain. A sea of red and green Ikuriña flags swept across the square in giant waves. On the opposite side of the plaza stood the stone-faced Guardia Civil gripping short-barreled machine pistols. They wore gray uniforms and three-cornered black hats with flat tops and pointed brims, not unlike a Dutch boy's hat, only black and shiny, which made them look grim. Some wore riot gear complete with facemasks, shields, and batons.
The chants rolled like thunder, followed by the fervent beat of drums, and it was only then that I became aware that they weren't chanting in Spanish but in a foreign tongue the likes of which I had never heard. A bottle hurtled over the crowd and shattered in front of the Guardia Civil. Another one smashed into a guard's shield, knocking him back.
"Asca-naciona-gora-euzkadi-askatuta!" the mob roared, punching fists in the air.
I asked Doña Moncha what was going on and she said, "Manifestaciones. It's the second year anniversary of the massacre at San Sebastian." Apparently, ten Basque demonstrators were killed in that rally when the Guardia Civil open-fired into the crowd with live ammunition.
There was an explosive tension in the air. I could smell it, almost even touch it. The demonstrators swelled forward, threatening the Guardia Civil, who tensed and lifted their assault rifles. I cringed.
"Ay, come on, walk faster. No time to snoop," Doña Moncha admonished, her shoes beating a tattoo on the pavement. We were midway across the plaza when it happened. Doña Moncha had made it to the mouth of the alley, but Maricarmen and I had stopped to watch.
It started with a pop, followed by a deafening boom. Someone screamed, more agitated shouts, and pandemonium erupted. The crowd surged forward and the Guardia Civil retreated, lifting their protective shields. Rocks and bottles hurtled in the air. Molotov cocktails exploded shooting ribbons of orange flames in the sky.
A long volley of shots followed. I saw a man fall, then another, and another. Behind us, a display window shattered, sending a shower of broken glass. "Dios mio!" Maricarmen exclaimed as a man staggered past, clutching a bloody chest. A bright red stain blotted his shirtfront. At once, the plaza was filled with screaming people, running in every direction. Smoke and tear gas filled the air. I grabbed Maricarmen's hand and dragged her through the haze, weaving around people that had fallen on the ground. One of them was bent over, screaming with his hands on his belly. I stopped, unsure whether to help him or not. Smoke swirled around us. Teargas fumes stung my eyes. Maricarmen tugged on my hand. I heard her choking and coughing, and I knew if we stayed any longer we would be trapped in the melee.
"Over there," I yelled, wading through the smoke toward the dim outline of the alley. We ran hand-in-hand, avoiding the blind rush of bodies. Something zipped past my ear and I lengthened my stride. When we reached the safety of the passageway, we paused to catch our breaths. Doña Moncha stood on the other end of the alley, frantically waving to us. "Ven, ven," she called, pointing to a tented marketplace.
She led us through the crowded aisles filled with panic-stricken people, across a bridge with a gentle arch, down a flight of stairs, into a secluded underpass bus stop. She stood gasping for air.
Maricarmen slumped onto me.
I drew her in gently and stroked her hair. "Are you okay?"
She nodded even as I felt her shudder in my arms.
We stayed that way for a moment and gathered our collective wit. In the distance, I heard muffled pops. I wondered about the people trapped there; the one I didn't help. I felt a stab of guilt. How many of them lay dead or wounded? The irony taunted me like a crude sign. I had left the Philippines to escape the violence and found it confronting me here.
In the bus, Doña Moncha gave us a thorough scolding. "What were you two thinking? I told you to stay with me! You could have been hurt." She took out a hanky from under her blouse and ran it across her face. "Que horor! We must now go to the market in Baracaldo. It is the only place I can find good callos for dinner."
Later that day, I found out that her precious callos was nothing more than a slab of tripe in garlic gelatin.
That night, I had a dream. I dreamt General Sanchez rolled to our apartment building in an armored caravan. Except he didn't look like a Filipino general anymore. He was wearing a gray uniform and three-cornered black hat. He bore a stony countenance: tight lips, glinting eyes, eyebrows bushed together at the bridge. Behind him, cloaked under the shadows stood a man. A familiar-looking man. The street light hit the stranger's face and my breath stopped. My God. It's Pancho Sanchez! His face as torn up as the night I left him. I gazed at the ghostly scene and watched Doña Moncha and Maricarmen emerge from the house. They spoke to the general in whispered tones. Suddenly, I became angry. How could they betray me? I thought they were my friends. But then, the general pulled a gun. It went off and the señora and Maricarmen staggered back, clutching their bosoms. A weird smoke swirled around them. They both fell, but the General wouldn't stop shooting.
"No! Stop!" I screamed, bolting up in bed. Sweat oozed down my face.
The light flickered on and Bjorn peered at me from his side of the room. "Are you okay Jaime?"
I looked at him numbly. "Ye--yes. I'm okay. Just a dream."
After the incident at the marketplace, I became intrigued by the Basques. I reasoned that if I were to make my life in this country, I had better know its people. I kept a small diary in my pocket and wrote about my encounters with them, no matter how minute. It became an obsession, an escape. I wrote alone, at night, on a pier two miles downriver where I wouldn't be disturbed by the chatter of my roommates. It was an exercise of the mind and of the body. I would tug on my jogging pants, knot the laces of my Reeboks, and canter along the river to my favorite knoll by the harbor where I could watch the city lights. In that secluded spot, I would make an entry in my diary or write to my sister and family in the best prose I could dream up. The diary became a friend, a confidant with whom I could share my deepest fears.
If I was not taking cultural lessons from Doña Moncha, I wandered around Bilbao to get familiar with my surroundings. I jogged often to keep in shape. During these moments of solitude, Bilbao couldn't have been more depressing. The city with its cluster of smokestacks was so drab it was hard to imagine a worse place to live. Everywhere I looked, I saw decrepit old foundries obscured by overcast skies that seemed to never go away. I was sure there was a sun hiding behind those jaundiced clouds, but it was too disgusted with the city to grace it with its presence.
But even as I waded in the pool of self pity, I knew I must conquer the demons of this town to have a chance at survival. I sensed them in the air, living and breathing, engulfing me with their arms. There was an unsettled quality about the city both frightening and intoxicating. I felt it during my walks, saw it on the faces of people I met, reminding me of the disturbing incident at the marketplace. It was like sitting on a barrel of jet fuel with someone next to you toying with a book of matches.
4 The Mystery Man
"What is it?" I asked Iñaki, poking at a bowl of what looked like tentacles swimming in black crud. I moved the rubbery meat around with a toothpick.
"That's baby octopus in black ink," Iñaki said, offended.
"Is it edible?"
Iñaki rolled his eyes. "Of course it's edible."
I offered the repulsive bowl to Cliff, the intern from London who wrinkled his nose and shrank back. Exasperated, Iñaki speared a piece of tentacle with a toothpick and shoved it in his mouth. "See?" A bead of black ink dribbled from his lip, eliciting an effeminate grimace from Cliff.
It had been three weeks since I arrived and I was bombarded with Spanish culture. My spirits had somewhat lifted, thanks to the letter I received from my father telling me that Marina had come home from the convent. "She's seeing a therapist and doing a little better," my father wrote. "It's going to take a little time, Jaime, but I think you may be hearing from her soon."
A peal of laughter broke into my thoughts and I glanced around the bar and saw the party in full swing: Elena looking exotic in a pink baby doll dress as she joked around with Jose Mari and Iñaki, Bjorn gazing at her dreamily from the foosball machine, and Allison surrounded by ogling men. I now understood why Allison dated so much. She was by far the most stunning woman in the room, without exception, and that included the dark-haired Spanish coeds Iñaki brought with him to the party. She was supposed to be Elena's roommate from California though from what I had seen, she was hardly ever home. I hadn't spoken a word to her except for the introductory encantado or glad to meet you. Her beauty went beyond earthly metaphors. She had the face of a cherub, round-shaped and unblemished made classic by a plump heart-shaped mouth. She had the most limpid eyes I had ever seen, the bluest of tanzanite perched on white silk. And of course, there was that boyish blond hair with a little fly away at the back. At one point during the evening, she caught me watching her from afar and I averted my gaze. I felt weird, and a little embarrassed, as if I'd been caught snooping in a forbidden room.
Iñaki bought everyone a round of drinks and caught my arm. "I called the company. You'll start in three weeks."
"But I was supposed to start next week," I protested.
"I know. But they want someone fluent in Spanish. I couldn't take the chance of them rejecting you. This will buy you time." He saw the worry in my eyes. "No te preoccupes, amigo. Don't worry. You'll be fine. Just practice your Spanish. Anyway, you really ought to see the city first. You know, get the feel of it. Absorb the culture. That's the beauty of the exchange program."
I nodded, not mollified by his laissez-faire attitude. I was banking on my internship for my living allowance. If I blew it now, my stay in Spain would be finished. Make it work, I told myself. You can't go back.
Jose Mari strode over, chafing like a blister. His face was florid and his hands, clenched into fists. He whispered something to Iñaki and the two of them engaged in heated conversation. I followed their gaze wondering what had triggered such animosity in fairly easy-going men, and saw to my curiosity that it was the fellow hovering over lovely Allison Flynn, a Spaniard about my age, twenty-one or twenty-two, dressed in black, quite handsome, with a dashing Zorro-esque stance. All he needed was a mask and he'd really draw in a crowd.
I studied Allison who was too enthralled by her Latin friend to notice Jose Mari's displeasure.
"Who is he?" I asked Inaki.
Iñaki curled his lips. "Francisco."
I stared at the mystery man. All I could think of was the señora's earlier outburst.
