John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“Goddammit,” said the officer, “what’s their word for surrender?”

“ Entregar ,” said Mei, without thinking. The officer looked at her as if she was a sniper.

“In Chinese?”

“Espanish.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“We need water,” she said, indicating the wounded soldiers laid out on the cots and on the blood-slippery floors. “Or alla these people die.”

When the sisters were told to come back home to Spain their Mother Superior said they could not bring a china caída and her bastard child with them, so Sor Merced had the only Filipino doctor, who was staying, tell the Americans to give her a job. Most of the Poor and Sick were gone by then, and the infected girls from all the houses were being sent to San Lázaro with the lepers, and the beds were filled with young American soldiers who were sick with all the same diseases or torn by bullets.

“She is clean and she speaks English,” the doctor told them, “and she bears no malice toward your flag.”

There are always things to boil in a hospital.

When Hod gets back to the ward Runt is sitting on his bed, oversized pistol and billy club lying beside him.

“Jeez, I feel bad about this,” he says, looking Hod over.

“I didn’t get it from you.”

“But I steered you to those girls.”

“And three of them were just fine,” says Hod, sitting on the wicker chair beside him.

My Son, if a maiden deny thee

— Runt proclaims—

— And scufflingly bid thee give o’er

Yet lip meets with lip at the lastward—

Get out! She has been there before

At the end of the fight is a tombstone

— Blount chimes in from across the aisle—

With the name of the late deceased

And the epitaph drear, “A fool lies here,

Who tried to hustle the East. ”

“What’s that?” asks Hod.

“What they’ll write over your grave if you go back to that parlor,” says Blount. “There’s not that many a rose that don’t have a thorn on it.”

“I brought some provisions,” says Runyon, pushing his glasses up on his nose and looking around for officers. He shakes a small cotton sack and there are metal sounds. “Sardines, crackers — real crackers, none of that wallboard they give us to march with — gingersnaps and a couple fruit I can’t remember what they call them. Fruit is supposed to be good for it, I think.”

Blount is staring at him. “They recruit in the grade schools in Minne-sota?”

“He’s from Pueblo.”

“No shit. You know Vern Kessler?”

“I worked for him.”

“Selling papers—”

“Writing for the Evening Press .”

“So did I,” Blount grins, “back when it had a little snap. Now I wouldn’t line a birdcage with it.”

“So where’d you get yours?” Runt nods toward the corporal’s crotch.

“A rather overdecorated establishment in Binondo.”

“Silk wallpaper with nymphs and satyrs?”

“You’ve been there.”

“We hit em all. Encourage the ladies to be examined, shut them down for a day or two — looking after the physical and spiritual welfare of our fighting men.”

“So you know where the best—”

“The best,” says Runyon, “is Nellie White’s on First Street, Pueblo Colo-rado.”

“The playground of my misspent youth,” smiles Blount. “But here?”

“I have ceased to be involved with the trade girls, having given my heart to Anastacia Bailerino.”

“A lady of some quality, no doubt.”

“Raven hair, skin like coffee and cream—”

“No itching or pain on urination yet?”

Runyon narrows his eyes at Corporal Blount. “If you weren’t a fellow newspaperman I’d demand satisfaction.”

Hod slips tins of sardines under his pillow. “What’s the news from the world, Alfie? When are we going home?”

Runt gives him an exasperated look. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“What—?”

“McKinley says we’re holding on to the joint.”

Hod feels a twinge in his testicles. If you let it go too far, the doc says, your testicles get inflamed. “Manila?”

“The whole shebang. They posted the Proclamation this morning. The googoos aren’t too thrilled.”

“How can he do that?”

Runt grins. “God told him to. ‘Benevolent Assimilation,’ he calls it. He says he got down on his knees and petitioned the Lord for guidance—”

“It would be easier,” Blount interrupts, “for a camel to pass through my urinary meatus than for a Republican to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“A Bryan man.”

“Me too,” says Hod. “As far as voting goes. Free Silver!”

“Free Silver Nitrate!” echoes Blount. “Venereals of the world unite!”

“They got the volunteers putting out brushfires all over the islands, chasing after Aguinaldo, challenging every amigo they meet on the road,” says Runyon. “The order is ‘shoot on suspicion.’ ”

“Suspicion of what?”

Runt shrugs. “Suspicion of not assimilating benevolently.” He stands to pose with his hand over his heart—

Ride with an idle whip, ride with an unused heel

— he recites—

— But once in a way there will come a day

When the colt must be made to feel

The lash that falls and the curb that galls

And the sting of the rowelled steel!

An orderly comes around then with the rolling table and Hod and Blount drink their hourly glass of water.

“Sometimes they put a little sandalwood oil in it,” Hod tells his visitor. “Improve the taste.”

“Manila water, Christ ,” says Runt. “They trying to kill you people?”

The convento is just a bit farther east along the Pasig, attached to one of the less ostentatious of the Catholic churches Niles has seen here. A barefoot boy leads Niles past the sacristy and up the polished wood stairs to the living quarters. Brother León is playing billiards.

“A superior pastime for developing the mind,” says the Franciscan, laying his stick on the table. He is tall, with a narrow, hawklike face, only a trace of the Spaniard in his diction. “It requires steadiness, concentration, and the ability to foresee the consequences of one’s actions.”

“I prefer cards.” Niles lifts the satchel onto a table that has tiny wells to hold gaming chips at each station. The friar steps over to watch as he opens it. On closer inspection, the cloth of his brown robe is not so rough as Niles imagined. Brother León’s face registers disappointment as he sees the medicines in the wooden box.

“I cannot do anything with these,” he says.

“Merely to acquaint you with my end of the transaction,” says Niles. “You are familiar with An Chao’s emporium?”

“Of course.”

“He has a dragon. Emerald green with red-tipped scales—”

“I know it.” The Franciscan’s eyes narrow shrewdly. “If I have learned one thing in this dark corner of Our Lord’s domain,” he says, “it is the unwavering value of precious stones.”

Niles wonders which of the three knots on the friar’s rope belt designates poverty. “And you would accept it as recompense for a sizable parcel of your land?” he inquires.

Brother León places the lid back on the wooden box. “You have me at a great disadvantage.”

The religious corporations have petitioned the military authority to return the lands and privileges usurped by the native filibusters, but no promises have been made, and given the average American’s distrust of papists, none are likely to be forthcoming. All over the city Spaniards are offering for a song that which they cannot carry with them, and the holy men are no exception.