The 6:00 p.m. curfew made little difference in the town of Boac. Most people were early to bed and early to rise.
Like always, just before sleeping, I stood in front of the window, gazing outside with a cup of coffee in my hands. Caffeine had long since stopped being a stimulant for me. Instead, it had the opposite effect—it warmed me like milk and calmed my mind, slowly making me drowsy.
The plaza outside stood empty and silent, a sharp contrast to how lively it had been earlier in the afternoon. The only things moving and making sound were the stirring leaves of the acacia trees and the creaking, swaying lantern carried by a pair of patrolling soldiers.
Above, a thousand stars shone in their usual stations, too lofty to be touched by whatever ills and storms afflicted the world of men.
The peaceful scene first put me at ease—then I felt a silent ache. The same stars that looked down on quiet Marinduque also bore witness to the chaos and bloodshed now wreaking havoc in Manila. On our way to Cavite, I had seen several trench lines being built; some of them had likely fallen to the Americans during the Sunday battle. I wondered, among the many faceless soldiers I had passed and the generals and officers I had met in Malolos—how many of them still walked the earth.
Having been reminded of Malolos, the train of memory led me to the Tiongson house.
I wondered if Paz was looking at the same night sky at the same time I was, breathing in the scent of jasmines as she did so. I wondered if she was safe.
Then, like an idiot, I found myself smiling. I remembered what Isabela told me earlier. She had been very young when her mother died—perhaps that was why she wasn’t opposed to me remarrying. In fact, I had a feeling she had been hoping I’d come to the idea for a long time.
It was the former Martin who refused to look at another woman. Through his memories, I could still recall how heartbroken he had been fifteen years ago when he lost his wife to a terrible fever. He hadn’t eaten properly for months afterward.
But I was another man now. I still carried his memories, some of his sentiments—but no longer his heart. Isabela... and dare I say, Paz... it was John who fell in love with them.
"You called for me, Heneral?"
I had heard Vicente climbing the stairs before he spoke, so I wasn’t startled. I turned around and saw him in his house clothes, his eyes still teary—clearly pulled from sleep. I had called for him, suddenly remembering something I’d been meaning to bring up.
"Have a seat."
He sat on the couch nearest him, and I sat opposite. It didn’t take long for him to notice the impressive object placed in the center of the table—the very same Orbea Hermano pistol he’d been eyeing before.
With a knowing smirk, I pushed the sidearm toward him.
"What’s this for, Heneral?" he asked, glancing from the pistol to me, puzzled.
"How’s your Spanish, Teniente?" I asked in return.
He tilted his head and chuckled. "Why do you ask? I don’t see the connection."
I tutted. "Answer the question, Teniente."
He shrugged. "Es bueno, Heneral. Me tomé mi educación en serio."
I couldn’t help but smile as the Spanish slid gracefully off his tongue. I clearly heard the elegant lisps of the Castilian accent—the British accent of the Spanish language.
In comparison, I only knew enough Spanish to hold a conversation, and I had the accent of a gasping carabao. If Vicente had the social status to match, he would look significantly more dignified than me.
I had never doubted his academic pedigree.
"That’s great, Teniente. It so happens that Isabela wants to learn Spanish. Believe it or not, she’s a bookworm like you—although not as severely addicted. Part of it is because most of the books in the house are in Spanish, and she can’t read what she can’t understand," I said.
Martin’s wife—a daughter of a college professor from Cebu—had been into reading. Martin, ever the devoted husband, had bought any book offered to him by a trader, resulting in a collection of about a hundred books.
I took it as a positive sign when Vicente suddenly let out a soft laugh. "Yes... I’ve noticed. You have a lot of good books, Heneral," he said, glancing at the small cabinet at the far end of the sala, near Isabela’s room. "It’s a shame they’ve been resigned to the mote and dust."
I cleared my throat. Knowing him, that might have been a jab. "Well... unlike you lazy bums, I have more important things to do than laze around reading books."
Vicente chuckled, but the laughter quickly died down. "Yes... I can teach Isabela Spanish. But I don’t think this is the best time, with everything going on. Wouldn’t you need me somewhere more important?"
I shook my head. "Trust me, Vicente. You’ll be right where I need you."
His brows furrowed. "Am I not up to the task that you’re relegating me to the sidelines, Heneral? This pistol... is this a bribe?"
I glared at him. "Bribe, Teniente? Might I remind you that you are a soldier under my command—and you will follow orders with or without incentives."
"My escorts are spread thin. And now, with martial law declared, I’ve upset some folks... powerful folks. People who might be upset enough to target what would hurt me the most—Isabela." I pushed the pistol closer to him. "You’ll be her Spanish teacher and her bodyguard. And I reckon you’ll need a more reliable sidearm than your junk pistol to do your job. Take a pair of escolta soldiers to assist you."
He nervously gulped, then looked away. Finally, he picked up the pistol and raised it to the moonlight, making its clean metal shine.
"Will I be exempted from training, then?" he asked.
I stroked my beard. "From most of it... yeah."
"Most of it, Heneral?"
"She wakes up late," I smiled. "I think you can still join the daily march and be back in time to greet her good morning."