I COME from a very old and distinguished family. I shall not mention its name, but I think you will recognise it as I go along. One of my ancestors is revered as a great hero of our people. Not everyone agrees that he deserves such an honour. But that is not really relevant to my story. I personally have never doubted that my ancestor was the kind of man rarely born on this earth – some believe him to be a god.
It is not easy to come from a family such as mine – indeed, it can be quite a burden. People expect heroism to be passed on, as if it were a genetic trait. Or at least they want it to be reflected in some extraordinary form, such as intellectual brilliance, a singular talent or through exceptional ambition. Most of us, though, are quite ordinary. To save myself some embarrassment, I usually make it a practice not to reveal my lineage, particularly to my illustrious ancestor’s ardent admirers. It is, however, an aspect of the human condition to be unable to escape one’s identity even as one rebels against it; I have always been drawn to those who would make a cult of my ancestor.
There are numerous groups, all over the islands. They call themselves the ‘kapatiran’ – it has no exact translation; over the years, I think I have met them all. And have studied many of them closely. I am a priest and I serve the one true God, but over time I think I have gained a little understanding of what lies at the heart of their faith. It is nationhood, which to them is simply an expression of the kingdom of God on earth – a man who gives his life to attain it is not just proclaimed hero, but saint, even a god.
I first saw the woman who is the real subject of my story at a ritual conducted by followers of my illustrious ancestor. I was visiting a little chapel at the foot of what believers call the Sacred Mountain. Perhaps some of you know the mountain of which I speak. It is a place of great beauty and enchantment. Before the white man introduced into these islands the religion that most of us now claim as our own, the mountain was the heart and soul of the land, the centre of life, wellspring of legend. Even today, it is said that it shelters deities whose creeds are now lost. There are many among us who, disillusioned by what we have made of our world, find sanctuary within its tranquil groves. It was in this modest wooden chapel I witnessed their rituals – please note I say ‘witnessed,’ not ‘joined’. After, a few people lingered, hoping for a word with the Suprema.
I wonder if any of you have ever seen these priestesses; they are impressive individuals, all have a commanding presence; some are strikingly beautiful. This one was very tall and very fair, with strongly chiselled features in an ageless face, large, penetrating eyes, and long hair drawn back in a bun. The ceremony done, she had changed from her vestments into a loose white robe and was sitting on a wooden bench to one side of the chapel to receive those who wished to consult her.
As I approached, the Suprema was speaking to a woman in her late forties, perhaps early fifties, of medium height, plain looks, a little on the stout side, her hair cut short. She wore thick glasses, and a simple dress of some unfashionable colour – purple, I think it was. One of her shoes had fallen off as she swung her feet, which dangled just above the floor. Their conversation was punctuated by laughter, the woman’s hearty and uninhibited. She had a loud voice, which carried to where I sat observing them from one of the pews. She was speaking of her classes, so I gathered that she was a teacher. Later, I learned that she was a university professor, and moreover, held a position of responsibility in the university’s administration, though she was quite disorganised, always misplacing and forgetting things, mixing up dates, late for appointments. She did not look in the least like an academician or a bureaucrat. She was, however, disarmingly unpretentious, and this made me like her instantly.
I do not remember now who introduced us, or when we became friends. One warms to some people immediately, perhaps because they are open and honest and trusting in themselves. Consuelo was one of them. She was truly unaware of any distinction of race or class or creed and treated everyone she met in the same manner, as much at ease with bishops and bankers as with beggars and bums. At first, I took her for simple. She was simple, yes, but in the sense of being uncomplicated. And she had the gift of making people laugh.
But I am getting ahead of my story.
I think we made one of those connections that are difficult to explain because they are not based on shared experiences; perhaps it was what some people call a meeting of kindred spirits. Others say it is the rekindling of a relationship from a previous life. I do not know the explanation. But I am certain that such connections occur.
When Consuelo learned I was a priest, her behaviour underwent a subtle change; I sensed her becoming protective and respectful, motherly and deferential. Some Catholic women react this way to priests. You will probably think this presumptuous of me, but I have sometimes thought that in just such a manner must the Virgin Mary have regarded her Son, our Divine Lord.
Consuelo told me that she had been a nun, which did not surprise me. She had known quite early that she had a vocation, and had chosen a contemplative order. She confided to me that her happiest years had been those five in the convent. But the unexpected death of her only brother forced her to return to the world – he had been responsible for their elderly mother, and left a young widow and two children.
Her superior consoled her with the thought that this was God’s way of testing her vocation. It proved to be a long trial. When I met her, Consuelo had been away from the convent many years, and there seemed no likelihood that she would return to it in the near future. Her family’s needs had grown rather than diminished. She had come to think that perhaps this was God’s way of telling her that she belonged in the world, rather than in seclusion, that she was to serve Him in another way. She had yet to discover what His purpose might be, but until she did the best path was to try to do good where and when she could.
This way, I was to see, was multifarious. Aside from her work as a teacher and administrator, she was involved in all kinds of efforts to ease the plight of the less fortunate – the imprisoned, the insane, the bereaved, the terminally ill, the hopelessly poor. Friend and stranger, too, sought her counsel and her intercession. Consuelo made time for them all, though her work at the university took precedence. She saw her teaching as a mission, and though she could not explain to me the exact nature of this mission, I could sense the vision behind it.
However, within academic circles, she was regarded with much ambivalence. Many of her own colleagues thought her a figure of fun, and were openly contemptuous. Consuelo was aware of this, and it pained her. These same people did not hesitate to approach her for help when they needed it, help which she never denied them. In any case, she must have known that there were many others who admired and loved her, and believed her a saint.
One afternoon – we had known each other for a little while – I permitted myself the liberty of appearing unannounced at her office. She seemed delighted to see me and, while we talked of this and that over cups of rather indifferent coffee, I looked around me, hoping to gain some insight into my friend’s character from the room in which she worked. I was, instead, struck by the lack of her presence; I have seldom been in rooms that revealed so little. Consuelo had left no mark, as if her office was merely a way station, necessary but not somewhere to linger. Behind her large, cluttered desk, from which she jumped every so often to attend to some small detail, she struck me just then as looking like a strange, slightly dishevelled bird, dressed in bright green, poised for flight. During a minor telephone interruption, my attention was caught by a large painting on the wall, which I now recognised as a portrait of my famous ancestor.
As she talked, but mostly listened, I stepped around the desk to more closely examine the painting, nearly stumbling over a capacious bag stuffed full of files and papers and what looked to be some articles of clothing and a pair of shoes. This amused me, confirming my impression of Consuelo poised for flight.
The painting was unsigned, a curious fact, particularly as it was a strikingly good portrait, far better than the many I had seen in my travels. The unknown artist had captured something others had missed. They painted, perhaps working from photographs or other portraits, the hero – stiff, somewhat pompous, in a neat little black suit, staring fixedly at his destiny. This artist had captured the man, and an ineffable quality recognisable only to those who knew him well. There was resolve, but a resolve born of sadness. The eyes revealed courage, but confusion as well, and resignation.
Consuelo cradled the telephoned and looked at me looking at the painting. Whose is it? I asked. Where had it come from? She was pleased at my interest. It was hers, she told me, left her by her grandfather. She had no idea about the identity of the artist. She said she remembered standing at the foot of the staircase in her grandfather’s house as a child and gazing at it with rapture. ‘I thought it was so beautiful,’ she said. ‘I thought he was so beautiful. I don’t know if I said anything to my grandfather. Perhaps I did.’ Her more affluent relatives waged a vicious struggle over the old man’s estate, but paid no heed to the bequest to Consuelo. It was too large for any of the walls in her mother’s little house, so Consuelo thought of donating it to her old convent. The sister superior thanked her, but said the painting belonged to this world.
Consuelo had it hung in the office of the dean, who had quickly returned it to her, saying only that he had grown uneasy with the piece, and felt she should have it back. Though it dominated the tiny office, she could think of nowhere else to put the painting and, in any case, it kept her company while she worked and seemed comfortable with her students. Their thinking was certainly clearer and they expressed themselves more in its presence. The portrait followed her to this larger office, more befitting an administrator.
I asked whether she felt the portrait was content in its present perch, and, laughing her hearty laugh, Consuelo said, ‘Well, he’s helping me a lot with my work, so he must be.’
I noticed the shift to the personal pronoun, but did not comment on it.
Consuelo guessed my thoughts. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I have a very intense personal relationship with him. My friends think it is all part of my craziness. They call him my “boyfriend”.’
Our work was demanding and we did not meet often; our infrequent attendance at gatherings of the kapatiran rarely overlapped. Nonetheless, our paths did cross now and then, and whenever they did, we would find ourselves slipping into easy conversation, picking up almost where we had left off. I was curious about the circumstances that had led her, a former nun, to the kapatiran, assuming that she was aware of the established church’s opinion of these ‘sects’. She told me that, initially, she had taken them to be an esoteric cult. Discovering a wealth of material unsuspected by most scholars, she had gradually become involved in the movement, first as researcher, then as initiate – this, she said, was the only way of understanding them. Eventually, she decided to do her doctoral dissertation on them and was fortunate in having for her adviser an elderly anthropologist, a great scholar, who understood the originality of her mind and the importance of her research; he encouraged her unorthodoxy.
What had so intrigued her in the first place? I asked Consuelo. What bound her now to the kapatiran?
She did not know. It was simply a strong force drawing her deeper and deeper, a force she at first resisted, doubting its nature. She understood that there are malevolent forces in this world. Gradually, she became convinced that there was no evil here, only a mysterious power that touched something within her, something that lay dormant. She said it was like hearing a melody that sounded strangely familiar, though she could not place it. Perhaps by listening longer, she would remember the music, perhaps an entire symphony.
The kapatiran welcomed her interest. Some saw in her the prophet spoken of in their traditions, the one who would deliver their message to the world.
Her dissertation came to be both testimony and prophecy, what the kapatiran called ‘patotoo’.
‘Why you?’ I asked Consuelo.
‘Oh, Father,’ she cried, ‘don’t you think I have asked myself that question again and again? Why me, of all people? Perhaps because I am open? Because I am here? You know the strange ways in which God works.’
I felt the rebuke, though she had intended none.
Consuelo’s fieldwork took several years, the writing no more than a couple of months. She defended her dissertation and it was published.
‘I feel he was behind it all,’ Consuelo told me, indicating the painting.
The following day was the anniversary of my ancestor’s death. There was to be a big kapatiran celebration in the city, at the monument honouring the hero’s martyrdom. Consuelo would be there and, as I too was planning to attend, we agreed to meet. It was one of those perfect evenings, unusual for the city even in December – cool and cloudless, the stars brilliant, a breeze blowing in from the sea. A large crowd had gathered at the park, mostly members of the kapatiran and a few curious tourists. I did not immediately find Consuelo.
There were the speeches and songs and trance dances. I watched, more engrossed by the participants than by the ritual itself, and after a while I spotted Consuelo standing a bit to one side, not part of any group but as enthralled as the others.
As I made my way through the crowd toward her, I saw a man approach her. I held back and watched. The man was dark-skinned, not very tall. His clothes were clean, but faded. He had the rough features and heavy build of a factory worker. Coming up on her from behind, he said something to Consuelo, and she turned abruptly, a startled expression on her face, but the alarm receded, to be replaced by her customary attentiveness.
I was close enough now, still hidden by the crowd, to overhear what the man was saying. He asked Consuelo what she thought of the celebration. I did not catch her answer. Then he said: ‘Why does it centre on the monument? Have they forgotten everything else?’
Consuelo looked puzzled, but she allowed him to lead her away from the main body of people. I followed, making sure that I was within earshot, but never intruding into their line of vision.
The man showed Consuelo some slabs of unpolished marble in which were engraved passages from the hero’s writings. ‘There was a time,’ he said, ‘when these words were lit up. Now they are left to darkness and oblivion.’ I was struck by the sadness in his voice. The marble was weather-worn, the words becoming hard to make out. He began reading them:
A nation wins respect not by covering up abuses but by punishing them and condemning them … All people are born equal. Naked and without chains. They are created not to be enslaved. They are given intelligence not to be led astray … I wish to show those who deny us patriotism that we know how to die for our duty and our convictions …
He was looking at her, not at the marble slabs, reciting from memory.
‘What is the point of fine speeches?’ the stranger asked, gesturing towards the crowd around the statue of the hero. ‘They will change nothing, nothing.’ I caught anger beneath his weariness.
‘Are you a member of the kapatiran?’ Consuelo asked him.
‘I am a Filipino,’ the man replied.
They were moving now towards another part of the monument. The man took hold of Consuelo’s elbow and helped her over the low fences that separated various sections of the monument, its steps littered with paper and other rubbish; in the darkness, it would have been easy to slip.
I was puzzled. Consuelo did not hesitate in following the man through the gloom of the park and did not flinch when he touched her arm. She did not generally permit any kind of physical intimacy, which I had attributed to her years in the convent. More astonishing to me was her silence.
They stopped now before a fountain that had been brought over from the European country where the hero had spent part of his exile. Consuelo may have been contemplating its garishness, but the stranger’s gaze had wandered to a nearby group – a little boy with empty eyes, bare skin exposed by rags, limbs moving mechanically in a small, grotesque dance; and beside him, three elderly men, sitting on a stone bench. Time seemed to slow.
‘Look there,’ the man said to Consuelo. ‘That boy has lost his mind to starvation. Those old men are watching for young street girls who will do anything for something to eat and a bed for the night.’
Consuelo’s face betrayed her scepticism. ‘You are wondering how I know this,’ he said. ‘I know. This park is my home. I live here. Nothing has changed.’
Taking Consuelo’s arm again, the man guided her toward the spot where the hero had died, marked now by mildewed, grimy slabs on which were engraved a final poem, written from prison as he awaited death. The man indicated a verse, which Consuelo read aloud in a soft voice:
Y cuando ya mi tumba de todos olvidada
No tenga cruz ni piedra que marquen su lugar,
Deja que la are el hombre, la esparza con la azada,
Y mis cenizas que vuelvan a la nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan a formar.
I will translate it for you:
And when my grave is wholly unremembered and unlocated [no cross upon it, no stone there, plain]:
let the site be wracked by the plow and cracked by the spade
and let my ashes, before they vanish to nothing,
as dust be formed a part of your carpet again.
When she had finished reading, Consuelo turned to the stranger. Her eyes, as she looked at him, were filled with compassion; his were bleak with pain. As I gazed at them, the world seemed to fade away – marble slabs and piles of rubbish, idiot boy and lewd old men, devout kapatiran and idle onlookers – all vanished. I saw a lean young man in a dark suit, his familiar face bright with the promise of all his gifts, and a beautiful young woman in a gown that swept the ground, her face pale with awakened passion. He took her hand and raised it slowly to his lips. A wind shook the trees, whipping her skirt about her legs, rumpling his hair. Then it was gone, the vision. The spinster schoolteacher stood before me, and beside her, the worn-down worker in faded clothes.
Now, someone was calling to Consuelo, a kapatiran member walked up to her and as they talked the strange man quietly withdrew. I watched him slip through the crowd and disappear into the shadows of some distant trees. When Consuelo remembered and turned to look for him, I saw the perplexed look in her eyes. And then she recognised me, and hailed me with her usual enthusiasm, which I strained to match. But I felt immensely drained and left the gathering early. My mind was too agitated, my heart too heavy, for prayer. I went to bed.
My conscience does not allow me to believe in reincarnation. My religion forbids it. But all my instincts told me that the mysterious man in the park was my ancestor. And that Consuelo was the great love of his youth.
Consuelo’s life began to make sense to me. I understood what drove her, understood her searching, why though she worshipped Christ the Redeemer, she could not be his bride; why she had bound herself to one she knew only from his words and a portrait on the wall, true now to a faith she had betrayed in another lifetime. She had failed him; he had failed himself, and his country, or had his country failed him? I wondered at the forces that would need to be reconciled before he and she could find peace.
The following evening, there was to be a banquet given by a historical society to honour the living descendants of the hero. I had assumed Consuelo would be there, and so had planned to be absent. But now, I decided to go. It was time for Consuelo to learn of my lineage, though to what end I did not know. I felt a great desire to give her something, something she could keep, something that had belonged to him. I entertained the notion that it would serve her as a talisman, give her strength to endure. But I had nothing to give; what little there was by way of material proof of his existence had long become part of the national heritage. And as you know, we take the vow of poverty when we enter the priesthood.
I realised, though, that I did have one small object, a silver medal given to me by my mother, which she said came from her mother’s mother and had been among some pieces of jewellery that had belonged to my famous ancestor’s sister. He had won the medal for an essay he had written as a schoolboy. My mother presented me with the medal on my graduation from the university.
When I received the Holy Orders, this was the one thing I had been unable to give up; perhaps I had some idea that it might earn me my ancestor’s forgiveness – he had not thought well of priests.
During the banquet, I was seated at the presidential table, along with the other members of our family. Consuelo arrived late and was sent to a remote table, so it was not until after the meal and formalities that we were able to speak.
‘Oh, Father, you are a sly one,’ she said, her voice ringing out in the stately hall, and causing several people to glance at us in amusement. ‘I should have known you had something up your sleeve. No wonder you kept questioning me about my painting and everything. Now, confess, Father: what’s your excuse for this great deception?’
I could only humbly acknowledge my guilt, offering no excuse save the usual one of finding people’s reactions, when they learned the truth, acutely disconcerting. And then, because I knew that we would soon be carried off by opposite currents, as always happens at large social affairs of that sort, I dug into my pocket and produced my gift.
‘It was his, Consuelo,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I think he would want you to have it.’
Consuelo stared at the little silver medal in my hand. She did not ask who ‘he’ was, or why I was giving her this relic. I had nothing else to say. I could not bring myself to mention the sad man in the park. Or my own strange vision.
After a long moment, she took the medal from my hand. I waited for her to speak. Instead, she threw her arms around me in a fierce embrace. Then she turned and left the hall.
Verse from El último adiós (My Last Farewell), by Jose Rizal, translator Nick Joaquin.
