Francisco Jose - Three Filipino Women

— Ismael del Mundo, nationalist businessman

— E. Hortenso, Marxist professor of politics

— Julio Acosta, Jesuit historian

— Greg Collantes, novelist

— M. B. Reyes, editor

— Tomas Monte, farm leader

By the end of the year, we had to include a new name in our group. Dr. E. Samonte, statistician. Not one of us was past fifty and it was Dr. Samonte whom everyone called Doctor in deference to his seniority for he was fifty-five. At first, we did not ask for any remuneration; it was enough that we were doing something other than what we were normally engaged in. It was also flattering for us to be asked by Narita, particularly after she had won the election. Now, we considered ourselves closer to the center of power and we could finally do something about the ideas that churned in our minds.

Academicians often have notions about good government, even a commitment to it, but are never given the opportunity to test their ideas or move the awesome and massive machinery. Narita also knew how much professors were paid. In the group, for instance, it was only del Mundo who had a car. Even Dr. Samonte had to ride in jeepneys. But money was of no consequence to Narita and a representation allowance of one thousand pesos each in 1966, even before she won the election, was something.

I have always wanted to know Senator Reyes personally. His speeches had impressed me with their depth and probity and that Sunday evening at Narita’s Pobres Park residence, I finally got to meet him. She had sent us an RSVP card, saying it was a sit-down dinner, and I was the first to arrive. I had many questions to ask, the most important of which was how she would be able to reconcile her nationalist platform with her being a member of the sugar bloc; how she would now bring justice to the sugar sacadas whose lives she had commented on in her zarzuela. She could always retort that I should pose the same questions to the senator. But, at least, Senator Reyes never claimed a social conscience; he was an old cacique who wanted the whole pie and cut off the Americans — a sentiment shared by many politicians turned entrepreneurs.

I now realize that these contradictions did not bother Narita; her concern was not image any longer or the ideological foundation for her campaign, but strategy. And we were her generals.

That was the night I should have quit but I did not have the sense then to dichotomize my vanity, my needs, from the full meaning of integrity. I glowed with self-importance; I was an agent of change, and were it not for the likes of me, the forces of decay, of evil, would triumph. And looking at myself at the time I now realize why the technocrats in government today — for all their objectivity and decency — will never leave the corrupt regime not only because they have power and prestige but because they feel that without themselves in government, it could be worse. That, of course, is their highest form of delusion.

Narita wore black pants and the new style barong designed by her dressmaker. She was elegant; and, tonight, instead of kissing me on the cheek, it was on the lips with a little insinuation of her tongue and just as my fancies were starting, she brought me crashing back to earth: “Your deadline for that Muslim profile will be on Monday, Eddie. I know you always meet your deadline, but I am reminding you nonetheless …” And with that, she went into chitchat, guiding the conversation where she thought it should go, never wasting my time, always pumping information out of me.

By seven-thirty, everyone was in and the talk became livelier with Royal Salute, Wild Turkey and cognac. Nothing but the best in Narita’s house and tonight, even her bartender wore white. It was April and steaming outside, but I should have put on a jacket for the air-conditioning was on full blast and even in that cavernous, living room, it was freezing. We were arguing about centralizing data and Isme del Mundo suggested a computer. It was at this moment that Senator Reyes arrived, saying that he had to leave his poker session although he was already winning a hundred thousand pesos — well, anything for his favorite daughter.

I had not seen him since he came to Santa Ana to address our graduating class and he seemed to have changed but little except for the white mane and the slightly perceptible stoop. He was as dark as the bottom of a pot and his pugnacious face which was familiar to all of us in Negros was rendered malevolent by his eyes which were narrow slits, the pouches bulging from under them. Narita brought him in and we stood up as he slouched on the sofa before us. “We were talking about a computer, Papa, which we need for the campaign and for other things. You can feed it all that mess in your office and simplify your operation as well …”

“Order it tomorrow, hija ,” he said indulgently, taking the glass of cognac that the waiter immediately handed him.

Del Mundo, always conscious of costs and particular with figures, spoke then: “It is very expensive, Senator. At least a quarter of a million dollars and we would have to train programmers and a staff to run—”

The Old Man did not even look at Isme. “You can raid any of the companies in Manila that have the competent people, hijo. Make that your job, offer them incentives. IBM should be able to satisfy us. And as for taxes …” He did not continue; he was not president of the Senate for nothing.

At dinner, it was all trivia interspersed with the senator’s bawdy jokes which were pathetically dated. Narita did not laugh at them and, at first, I thought she was being prudish as we, ourselves, hypocrites, were laughing as if we had not heard them before. The Old Man was sharp. “Narita does not laugh at these jokes anymore.” he said dryly. “She has heard them so many times but she lets me tell them just the same.”

It was a fine French meal that started with vichyssoise. With our stomachs finally stuffed with soufflé, cups of coffee in hand, we proceeded to the library for the session that was to last till four in the morning, the senator lording over it. He started with grandiloquence and self-depreciation: “Politics is the highest form of human enterprise for with politics, we shape the state and, therefore, the nature of society. It is an honorable profession made dishonorable by rascals like myself who have, like bad weeds, lived this long. I must go but the state lives on. And if you want to better the state, then look at politicians as necessary evils. Not that Narita is evil—,” he looked at his daughter-in-law seated on the arm of the sofa, her hand on his shoulder. “But she is a pretty little devil, isn’t she?” We all laughed and Narita accepted the compliment with a smile. She really had the Old Man wrapped around her little finger and I wouldn’t have been surprised then if the senator, the old goat that we all knew him to be, desired her, too. Then, “I have discussed it with the President and all the Party chieftains. I could have made a unilateral decision, but I believe in the democratic process. And, besides, this will be the first time that the Party will have a beautiful and brilliant candidate.”

The king is dead! Long live the king! We all clapped in complete harmony. Now, we really had work to do, now we had an objective — to win the election — two years away.

“You are all family now,” the senator boomed. “So let us talk frankly. Candidly. You are also novatos —but brilliant novatos who have ideas. Or is it plots? I would like to hear all of them. Talk of nothing else but how to win …”

The discussion was freewheeling; we started with regional issues, the Ilocos and tobacco and the possibility of reestablishing the cotton industry there. Tourism for the Mountain Province and resettlement in Cagayan Valley and in the foothills of Sierra Madre. Rice and agrarian reform in Central Luzon. Decentralization of the sugar industry, fishing in the Visayas and intensified agriculture, the Muslim problem in Mindanao. Then we went into foreign relations, the American bases and, finally, tactics.