Chapter 3

“Hoy, your father called you. You have to go with him to Pasuquin.” A voice snapped Jimuel awake, who blinked blearily at a face in his doorway. It was his father’s bodyguard, Ron. He groaned. “Why?”

            “Jak ammo. I don’t know. But hurry, he’s mad.” Ron grunted and then shut the door. Jimuel groaned again, louder, then lifted his big-boned body off of the silk sheets. His thick chest was bare, his n*****s protruding in the cold air of his air-conditioned bedroom. He grabbed his pants and a white kamiso before running a hand through his thick, rough hair. He did not bother with socks or shoes, but slid into his house slippers before ducking out of his bedroom.

            Ron was waiting outside. Jimuel looked at him, paused, then opened his mouth. “You’re coming?” Ron nodded gruffly and began to lead Jimuel to the garage, where the Pajero was waiting. Jimuel hummed pensively, scratching the beard that was starting to grow on his jaw. They walked out of the hallway of his bedroom to the spacious sala where they hosted guests and smoked cigarettes after dinner. Jimuel’s slippers were muffled against the heavy narra floors, polished to a dark brown that bounced the yellow lights all around the gigantic house.

            Jimuel spotted the guards, more than usual, bustling about the house, getting ready to leave. “Must be political, no?” They had arrived at the garage.

            Ron did not reply but instead opened the Pajero’s door for Jimuel to get into. His father, fat and reeking of sweat and heat, was already inside. He looked more enraged than usual, but Jimuel pretended not to notice. “Hi, dad.”

            “Jimuel! You’ve just woken up?! It’s three in the afternoon! Where are your shoes?!” The Mayor’s spit flew everywhere and his son’s tall figure drooped in his seat. “I was rushed so I didn’t have time to get them. Come on, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just go. Why do we need to go to Pasuquin?”

            “You’ll see! We’re going to go there to ask about this puta who’s in town. She owns the new mall, and she’s a real… she’s a real b***h, that’s what. Puta. I’ll go there and talk to Mayor Nilon about her and we’ll find out where she got the money to put up a mall.” The Mayor had drifted off to a hateful mumble and Jimuel had hardly listened in the first place. He sighed, then leaned an elbow on the windowsill of the Pajero. Ron had gotten in the driver’s seat and began revving up the car.

            “So, you’ve made an enemy with a girl?” Jimuel coaxed his father, who’s voice tripled in volume.

            “You stupid s**t!”

            Jimuel did not bother to listen to the following tirade of insults and grievances his father launched into, he simply closed his eyes and fell asleep at the rocking of the Pajero. It took two hours to reach Pasuquin, and in the afternoon, something akin to traffic plagued the streets of Ilocos. There were tourists, and there were locals escaping tourists, that flooded the roads.

            It was six in the evening when they arrived at the Pasuquin’s Mayor’s villa. They drove, their car suddenly small in comparison to the giant ksar of a home they had entered. They saw, on top of the small hill, was the domed roof off the mansion made of bright turquoise stone. There were minarets surrounding it, made of white marble with strange symbols atop the small thin pillars. The driveway was paved, instead of cheap gravel, with smoot cobblestones alike those in Vigan in the south. The setting sun was glinting off the stone structures, and there was a humid breeze blowing through the coconut palms lining the driveway.

            The Mayor was obviously new money, with the strange architecture of his house so alien from the familiar rustic tastes of the Spanish families that ruled the Ilocos. Franklin would bet that this newly-elected Mayor would not even be able to speak Ilocano, perhaps he would even dare to speak English.

He scoffed to himself as his Pajero pulled up at the entrance of the villa, right behind a sleek, top-of-the-line model of his own car. He decided he did not like this new Mayor Nilon at all.

But Mayor Nilon had appeared in person to greet them, looking every bit the tenacious young politician that he was. His thirty years were gracious on him, and his body was fit and strong and tanned evenly in the Ilocano sun. His hair was thick. His jaw was square. He did not wear Western suits nor did he indulge in the informal barong. Instead, he wore a fit polo that hugged his chest and his waist and rolled up his sleeves. He had on dark slacks, and simple leather shoes. He spotted the Mayor of Santiago exiting the car with effort, and smiled and waved politely.

“Adricio!” Nilon called out jovially in tagalog with a strong Manila accent. “What brings you here!”

Franklin had barely gotten out of the car and the other man had already demanded an explanation of his presence. Incensed, Franklin huffed and waddled quickly over to him. “Nilon! Couldn’t you offer us some meryenda first? The drive here is long and we’re thirsty and hungry.”

“But of course, of course, it’s all been prepared.” Nilon winked and smirked at him before looking up to see Jimuel. “This is your son! Jim! How are you enjoying your summer break?”

Franklin frowned and laughed dismissively at Nilon. “It is June already, Nilon. He’ll be going back to Manila soon to begin his final semester.” His son, however, frustratingly, denied him.

“No, dad. I told you. The academic calendar is switching to the Southeast Asian one. Our school year starts on August, now.”

Nilon laughed good-naturedly. “Now, don’t fight, apo. You too, annak ko. You should understand your father as I am understanding my predecessors: being a Mayor is a very time-consuming job.” He smiled warmly at the two. Franklin noted with irritation at the twang his Ilocano had, his conyo accent was nothing but insulting him. He should go back to Manila, back to his big, stupid university and his stupid company headquarters.

They were led inside by Nilon, and the mansion appeared like a palace inside. A strange, arabesque palace decorated with designs and motifs that Franklin had never seen before and failed to even recognize. Nilon, noting his lack of comment, smiled and graciously fed him information. “Ah, the architecture? Yes, I suppose it is strange to look at. It is inspired by the great domes of Persia, and Egypt. Yes. Muslim countries.”

Franklin did not realize his lip had curled upwards and that he was sporting a look of disgust. Nilon pretended not to see it as he looked away, but his voice was a little flatter than before. “As you see, I was born in Mindanao. In Cotabato, to be precise.”

Jimuel elbowed his father to shake off the look of derision and with widened eyes warned him against doing it again. Franklin had the decency to look ashamed. He offered up, contritely, “Cotabato is very beautiful, Mayor. I myself wish to visit it one day.”

Nilon smiled at him and then led them through the sala, where they noted several rugs on the floor, and a Koran, laid on top of a coffee table nearby. The sala offered a view of the pool outside, and the garden overflowing with verbena around it. There was a swing set, too, and several children playing around it.

“I see you have children, Mayor.” Franklin mumbled distractedly, eyes glued to the Koran on the coffee table. “I do miss them at that small, cute stage.” Nilon smiled and turned, ignoring Franklin’s staring at the prayer elements.

“I do have five kids. Unfortunately, only two remain at the small, cute stage.”

Jimuel smiled at the Mayor, finally finding a conversation topic he could wag his youthful masculinity at. “You have any daughters, sir?”

Nilon’s eyebrows shot up and he blinked twice before smiling shakily. “Yes, young man, and I expect you to stay far away from them.” He broke into laughter which the other two thankfully joined in on.

“Besides, they could take care of themselves. They are quite the tomboys.”

“Ay. Tibo, ba?” Franklin spluttered.

Nilon again glimpsed the flash of disgust on Franklin’s face and looked less and less patient with them. “No. They’re just expressive, alright? I think it’s a phase.”

Jimuel nodded, reassuring him. “Don’t worry, sir. I’m sure they’re perfect. And�"!” He added with a nervous smile at Nilon’s expression, “I respect that!”

Nilon’s faced seemed to be teetering between polite and irritated as he blinked at them. Finally, he smiled and nodded. Without another word, he turned around and led them into the dining room, where they found a tall woman with braided hair sipping coffee. Instantly, Franklin cried out as if struck.

“Bah!”

“Dad?” Jimuel turned to check his father, but saw that his eyes were popping out and he looked like a fish gasping for water across the glass dining table. Jimuel followed his father’s gaze and was met with the piercing hue of Samson’s light eyes.

“Ah! She mentioned to have met you, Mayor Ardicio.” Nilon’s voice interjected as he put a hand on Samson’s shoulder. “This is my wife, Vivien Samson.”

Samson smiled serenely, patiently waiting Franklin to speak. Seeing as he wasn’t going to, she put down the coffee cup, stood up and nodded at him. “It is nice to see you again, Mayor. Although I am quite surprised, I had the impression you did not like me earlier.” She laughed.

Startled at her frankness, Franklin began to sweat even more. “No, of course not, ma’am. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” He chuckled. “I was probably disturbed by the heat, and the crowd, of course, you know…” His voice dwindled and Samson smiled at him. She turned to Jimuel, who was staring at her face without shame.

“Hello.”

“Ay… hi.” Jimuel said quietly and Samson turned to her husband with a look before looking back at their visitors. “I suppose you’re hungry, then? Forget snacks, stay for dinner.”

Nilon smiled ruefully at his wife. “I promised them meryenda, hon. Maybe they could have a little snack before dinner?”

“No.” Samson said firmly with a smile and turning to Franklin’s gaping eyes she shook her head. “It will ruin your appetite! I have begun cooking for you, and I expect you to be hungry when I serve it.”

Never had Franklin encountered such a pushy woman, so proud with her cooking. Cooking! Something she was expected and born to do, something that shouldn’t be talked about as if it was anticipated or adjusted to. He watched, in even more horror, as her husband balked and sighed in resignation to the demands of his wife.

 The tension in the air was then broken by the entrance of Nilon and Vivien’s daughter, through the garden entrance of the dining room.

“Mom! Rocky hit my head again so I hit him also. Now he is crying.” She said in straight English with exaggerated shock before noticing that there were visitors in the room. “Ay, there are bisita. Hello, po.”

 The young girl walked up to Franklin and Jimuel, then bowed a little extending a hand to Franklin. The Mayor of Santiago offered it and the girl touched it to her head briefly. Franklin smiled at the young girl. “Aba! This young girl knows how to mano!”

Nilon smiled. “Of course.”

“I thought kids these days forgot how to respect their elders already.” Franklin smiled again, a shadier one, towards Nilon and Vivien. Samson ushered the young girl back into the garden, then stepped uncomfortably close.

“Mayor Franklin, I think you’d like to step outside to see the pool? So that you could invite your wife for a swim sometime.” She said warmly, draping a hand on Franklin’s thick shoulder. “Ay… I’ve never seen ma’am Ardicio, actually. I’m sorry, maybe I’m talking about something I don’t know?”

            Jimuel shook his head. “No, no. She’s alive. She’s just in Manila right now for a business trip.”

            “Business trip?” Samson looked brightly at them. “Your wife is a businesswoman?”

            “She sells those little cakes that she loves to bake. She has nothing else to do since Jimuel here studies in Manila and we have no more children. What can you expect? One has to keep busy, no?” Franklin spoke in an apologetic tone about his wife. “She isn’t crazy enough to say, buy a mall!” He laughed. “Such a hard job with so many responsibilities, I honestly don’t know what you’re thinking Madame Samson.”

            Samson shrugged, then, slowly, reached into her pocket and lit a cigarette.

            “I hope you have more confidence in me, then, seeing your lack of confidence in your wife. We will be business partners of some sort, with you taxing me ridiculously already. I also noticed some strange administrative fees, processing fees, construction fees in the accounts of the mall. I believe that Santiago Construction is owned by you?”

            The words were like bullets singing through the air and embedding themselves on Franklin’s flesh. Visibly, he did look like he was shot. “What are you insinuating, Madame?” His face had gone red, and he turned to Nilon for an explanation.

            “Sir, your wife is suggesting I pocketed some fees for the mall.”

            Nilon’s eyebrows shot up in his usual face of bemused surprise. “Well, Mayor Franklin, is it not true? We are all politicians here, so there is no need to lie to one. Especially a more seasoned one, after all. It is an insult.”

            “Seasoned politician?” Franklin mouthed aghast at Samson, who breathed smoke out of her nose and smiled at him.

            “I don’t know if serving as congresswoman for two different regions in Mindanao counts as seasoned. But after all, I dealt with issues much larger than mall openings and fishing fiestas back there.”

            Franklin blinked now, at a loss for surprised reactions. A woman?! A woman leading the communities in Mindanao, the island of the Philippines soaked in religious conflict. Martial Law had been declared more than twice upon that island. Bombs were exploding in that island. There was actual terrorism in that island, unlike the small-scale events that happened in Luzon or in Visayas. There was fear there. There was real fear.

            “You look so frightened, Mayor Franklin. Have you ever visited Mindanao? At least, Davao?” Samson prodded with her eyes. “It’s a beautiful place. The natural beauty is enough to make our Ilocos envious.”

            Franklin frowned now. “I thought you were born in Santiago. You graduated from Santiago. How could you have wound up all the way south, on the other tip of the Philippines?”

            Before Samson could reply, in burst a riotous mess of children and young adults from the garden door. There was a shriek, a yell, and laughter from the older children. Apologetically, the oldest looking one, a young man with fair skin and mestizo features handed Samson a crying child.

            “Sorry, ma. She’s been crying since lunch.”

            Samson accepted the child and turned away from Franklin and Jimuel, leaving them with Nilon. They watched her usher all of the children back to the sala and up the staircase.

            Franklin, relieved that she had left the room, turned to Jimuel.

            “In the end, women have to deal with children, no?”

            Jimuel closed his eyes so he could conceal them as they rolled over into his skull.