He cogitated with total delight at his coffee corner flirtations with Kate at the office, and at how she could fall easily into his little play of words. Images past flashed in slow motion, at how his phone conversation with her went on, seconds before he left his flat. He smiled to himself with pleasure.
'You missed something,' Kate said.
'Did I?'
'You didn't bother to say goodbye.'
'Oh, I'm sorry, Katie. I will make it up to you on my return.'
'Hey, the boss said that you should call immediately on arrival. And that our man in our local office will be waiting for you at the airport. Don’t forget.'
'I won't. Don't worry.'
'And thanks for that lunch.'
'No problem. It was nice and besides, it gave me some insights into my stupidity with you.'
'Why do you say so? ' asked Kate, her voice soft and coquettish.
'For a lot of things.'
'That leaves me to thinking if you could give me an example,' she asked, prodding him.
'I feel nice inside when I'm with you. And that makes me stupid for wasting it away.' He slipped. He knew he shouldn't have said that.
'I don’t understand quite clearly.' Kate knew what it meant, but preferred to pretend. She wanted more explanation, more clarity in that ambiguous statement.
Good thing I was quick to retract. 'Sorry, it's not easy to say it in words, more so on the phone. I'll make you understand as soon as I return home.'
'Alright then.' But she was very eager to hear it, to feel his voice saying those three words.
There was silence. Frank Sinatra's refrain was stressed with full force. 'Wake up to reality, use your mentality . . .' And before long he had heard himself saying goodbye.
'Don't forget to call, okay? Take care of yourself JC . . . Bye.'
'See you in one week.'
He knew she understood. Women easily understand any signs, manifestations, or insinuations men give, he pondered with satisfaction. I think she's so naïve to be thinking that there's something ahead of us, naïve that someday I would say that I love her and would bring her home to my family. Yes, I won't deny that I like her. She's a very desirable lady and any normal sane man would easily succumb to any of her flirtations. But this is not love at all! It would complicate matters if we had an open relationship based on something else. Someday she would learn to detest me. And that's the last thing I would want to happen.
Aside from that, he had seen that she was overly nice to anyone she thought would be available. This cooled him off. He told himself never to be caught in the trap. His reservations always stood in the way. He had his reasons. Work was one. He thought it should not be mixed with some serious emotional ties with the people he shared the office with. The taxi wound its way through busy streets until they finally reached JFK airport. He paid the driver with a tip, jumped out, and got his things out from the hood.
“Thank you,” JC said. “Your country is beautiful, don't you know that?”
The driver simply nodded, happy to have received the fare and the tip. “Thanks to you, sir,” he said, bowing his head to show his gratitude,
JFK airport was the center for travelers from different places, going to and fro, mostly businessmen in suits. Attaché case in one hand, most of them tugged along belongings in wheeled Samsonite bags. JC strode up to the reception desk with his own luggage to show his passport and ticket. After checking in, he headed to the pre-departure area, passing through duty-free shops. One hour to wait and he'd be on the plane. At the pre-departure area, he sat on one of the benches in front of the television. The world news was blaring, most of them he already knew. He felt uncomfortable, so he pulled himself up and stretched toward the window. At the far end, he saw window cleaners hanging on ramparts. It was a good view of the tarmac, where he could see activities going on.
He took a glance where a row of Western Airlines jets was parked. Protruding jet bridges attached to their sides reminded him of his accordion at home. He admired the technology, the invention of jet bridges, and these big birds to which they were temporarily connected, transporting so many people and so many cargoes at a time, so proportioned in size and utility that he wondered who their inventors were. He noticed airport personnel milling about on the tarmac, hauling cargoes, and directing traffic unmindful of the passengers waiting in the departure area. It was an excellent view from where he was watching. Outside, the wind rammed gently against the thick glass window suggesting the inseparability of both worlds
He left the window and sat in front of a big TV screen and watched the news. One caught his attention. The senator, his subject was having an interview from his hotel room in Taipei before his departure.
“Sir,” asked the anchorwoman holding a microphone, “aren't you afraid of proceeding, with all the threats to your life?”
The senator, who was clearly worried on his face, answered her, “I will be wearing a bulletproof vest. I think this will protect me from any snipers if there are any,” he said. “Be ready with your cameras because this action can be very fast. In a matter of three or four minutes it could be all over, and I may not be able to talk to you after this . . .” he continued, obviously facetious to lighten the mood and brush away some of his fears.
Brave indeed, JC thought.
Boarding was called and JC proceeded to Gate four. There was a long line of people who must be going home from a short vacation, seeing that most of them were having large hand-carried packages with branded labels on them. He had the business class. After receiving the greetings from the stewardesses, he took the first seat on the right facing the window. Most of the passengers were Japanese and Chinese students on their way home from a tour. He heard the clicking of seat belts one after the other. He relaxed.
Once seated, he closed his wearied eyes to rest after that long ride but was aware of the pilot's welcome address. One of the stewardesses explained some basic safety measures in a memorized fashion which he perhaps had heard a thousand times. Boeing 747 was comfortable with large spaces in business class. Drinks were passed around on trays and he picked a glass of gin tonic with peanuts. When dinner was served he chose beef with a glass of wine. He slept almost all the way to his destination, occasionally getting up to make himself comfortable and stretch his legs. It was a long flight with one stop-over in LA. Four hours passed. The flight across the Pacific was longer still.
It's too late for me. I should have been on that plane from Boston and tracked him down to Singapore and Taipei, then to Makati. He wondered how these people got the tip. He looked out of the window. Clouds slipped by. Their slow-motion movement made him feel how fleeting life was. Until this time he was still blaming himself for Mary's death in that fatal accident. From somewhere deep inside his memory came a voice, one that had been quiescent while he was occupied, and turned active every time his mind was idle. He tried to brush it away. If Dad hadn't remarried, life would have taken a different course. I was young and the changes were too much . . . I felt neglected . . . I rebelled. If only I hadn't sought solace from other people . . . I shouldn't have searched for attention and love somewhere else . . .series of events . . . from mom's death . . . It was painful . . . if she hadn't died earlier, our family would still have been together, dad wouldn't have remarried and I wouldn't have been going out with Mary . . . and fallen in love with her . . . Who should I blame? I can't blame him. I can't blame mom. I can't blame any of them.
The accident was your fault, JC. The little voice pestered him continuously, turning his thoughts into turmoil. He wrestled it out from his mind. In hopes of muting the voice, the scenes outside the window down a hundred miles below was the answer, so he peered out. A little distraction from reality was what he needed. He focused on the thousands of pale lights twinkling like fireflies in the dark. This unique scene in the middle of darkness at once released his mind from the pestering of the voice. Like watching something on TV, he would flip it to another channel or leave it where it was, for he had the liberty to choose. He had different choices to take, and he took one to brush the voice away.
The Cebu Military Camp was a vast expanse of land dotted with several buildings which were the barracks. From a bird's eye view, far above the air looking down, their galvanized iron roofs seemed odd and rusty. They were peppered with holes, used bicycle tires, and many other useless articles. From that vantage point, it looked innocently like any of the other roofs around but they were the barracks of the military in the southern part of the country. On closer look the buildings were grungy, their paint peeled off and they were packed together like staples in a cartoon.In one of the quarters, the air was steaming hot. Perspiring, two men were anxiously waiting for their last-minute instructions from the top.One of them was Rudy Rude who was pacing the floor restlessly. Fair-skinned, people called him 'Mestizo'. This was due to his Caucasian feature, and good looks. He was handsome but he was ruthless. In their missions, he loved to pull the trig
Eight hours wearily drifted by. Soon JC would see land. Then the announcement, for which he had dreaded, came about unexpectedly from the P.A. system. There was a crackle and the pilot’s voice rose above the din. “May I have your attention, please?.. I'm sorry to announce that we are behind schedule. Unexpectedly the tower told us to hold on . . . and that we will be landing soon. This is due to some unavoidable circumstance . . . The temperature outside is 32º centigrade. Don't hesitate to ask the stewardesses for anything. Please make yourself comfortable. Thank you.”No reason was announced by the pilot but the plane hovered above the vast sky interminably, waiting for approval from the tower to land. Everybody inside was beginning to be anxious, it seemed the passenger cabin became smaller as time dragged on and on. It reeked of anticipation and anxiety.The cabin burst with relief when the plane finally got the go signal to lan
After her short conversation with JC, Kate passed the line to the boss's office. There was a click, and then Mr. McMillan came through. “Hello, John Carlos.” His voice was calm but had traces of the pressures of everyday work. He was already expecting his call."Good evening, sir. Do you already know?”“What is it that I should never know? News is you, John Carlos. If there´s something that comes out aside from us, then we are not the first. Haven´t I told you we should be the first? Tell me. That's why I sent you."“Well, I am just presuming some other newspapers got it first, sir. If there's no news, there's no news yet, wherever you are. I said that because Tommy, our man here said there's a news blackout over here.”“Okay. What happened?”“The worst of what we had expected came today, sir. The senator was assassinated.”“What?
After breakfast, JC went to the bank and had his dollar changed. Tommy waited outside. After counting his money, he went to look for him. He was there alright sitting in his car.“I want to interview the head of that military operation, Tom. Will that be possible today?” he asked him.“I'll call Louisa to arrange that for us.”“Then we should go see members of the opposition.”“We can do that in the afternoon, JC"All over the land assumptions ran high. People not only speculate, but they were also suspicious of the government-created media and pointed an accusatory finger at a high-level conspiracy. Somebody was responsible up there. After years of authoritarian rule, people’s judgment was set on no one but the monsters. Putting aside due process they found them guilty by popular consensus. Public clamor for an explanation or a denial was broiling from north to south. It was expected to come out soon
The Time's bureau was situated in a recently constructed modern building in the heart of the city along Ayala Avenue. They took the elevator up to the third floor then strode along a narrow long hallway. JC counted three doors before they reached the office. Without knocking Tommy led the way. When they entered JC was relieved to see it was indeed spacious for a staff of five. He heard the humming of the air conditioner on the wall which was recently painted white and saw it was bare. He had the impression that the office was recently set up. All of them were busy with their reports for the day, some to be sent to the main office. There were five desks and one was newly installed for the newcomer. JC was pleased to see that there was enough legroom for a tall person like him if he was working in it for most of his time. Then Tommy introduced him to everybody. “Mr. Martin, this is Louisa and Carlo. She's my assistant and Carlo is our cameraman,” Tommy said, in
Her thoughts lingered with compassion. It was abruptly interrupted when she heard a familiar voice at the end of the line. She was sure she knew the voice. “Excuse me, is this the last on the line?” This was what she heard. “Yes, sir,” a woman with a little child answered politely. Tessa traced the voice to see no other than . . . “Tommy!” she called. She was delighted to see his cousin's familiar face. Tommy turned around in the direction of the voice. “I never thought I'd find you here,” he said in return. “Nobody can prevent me, but hush, be quiet,” she said in a low voice. “If somebody from work sees you here, you would be out in the streets in seconds,” Tommy whispered accusingly. “I don't mind anymore, Tom. With what's happening to the country, I don't give a damn about my work or about myself anymore.” “And you? Why are you here?” She asked. “The same reason as yours
On JC's fifth day he was at the office working with the team when he heard the statement -the long-awaited denial from the Palace which was aired on the radio. On the wall, the air-conditioner was buzzing irritatingly and was giving little comfort to the large space the workers were occupying. After the statement, Louisa went to the little kitchen to prepare coffee for herself. The others went back doing their usual things and JC slipped back to his desk to finish the report he was doing. Nobody believed in what they heard. Some never cared. "Do you believe in that?" Everybody disagreed. One guffawed. The telephone rang three times while Louisa was still in the kitchen. JC picked it up and held the handset. “Hello,” a muffled voice crackled on the other side. “Hello, JC Martin,” he answered, still typing his report, the receiver tucked between his ear and shoulder. He listened. There was hesitation at the other end. Then a litt
The television was on but General Ver's mind was far away, divided between the news and the storm he was facing, with him at the center. He saw Guion Bluford who became the first African-American in space aboard Space Shuttle Challenger on the STS-8 mission. General Ver thought it was a waste of money to send people to space. It was drowned out by the news of the assassination, however, by the footage of the Japanese tape which was aired over and over. A burst of anger was contained in that little office, which was filled with smoke. The General was pacing to and fro, snorting heavily. He knocked the chair down and his anger rose to the roof. Why did it go wrong? He picked up a book and launched it sideways. It thumped on the wall and crashed on the floor. Why did it go wrong? General Ver's mind kept repeating the phrase. "Why did his plan go wrong? He faced his subordinates and launched his verbal attack, “What kind of an operation was that, you nit head?”