Vicente stopped in front of the bamboo fence, hands behind his back. His smile widened, and I had never seen his eyes twinkle the way they did just then.
The house before us was a humble nipa hut, only large enough to accommodate a room or two. A tall talisay tree rose beside it, casting a wide shadow over the yard. A woman, about my age, was sweeping beneath the shade, gathering dead leaves into a small mound.
We stood there for a few moments, listening to the sound of the walis-tingting brushing against the dark soil, before Vicente finally spoke.
"Nay," he said.
It was only a single word, but I heard it carry a voluminous story.
The woman abruptly halted her task. Although a bit bent with age, her grey-haired head snapped in our direction. Her wrinkled face brightened, and the broom and the shawl around her shoulders dropped to the ground as she ran toward Vicente.
"Anak!" she cried, as Vicente rushed to meet her. The two of them collided in a tight embrace.
"Why did you stop writing to us?" she said, teary-eyed, her hands on his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he replied.
He had only spent less than a month in Marinduque, where I remembered him fussing about how he could send letters. Even if he had managed to, they might not have arrived yet—if they arrived at all. Vicente had likely spent more time traveling from place to place, first in the company of the President's staff, then with Heneral Diokno's. He probably hadn't had the chance to write home.
"Dios mio, hijo! You don't know how worried I was, especially with everything happening in Manila," she said, scanning her son's appearance with concern. Vicente was still wearing the same suit he'd had on since we boarded the steamship and somehow it still looked neat and pressed.
"Well, I'm here now, and you no longer need to worry," Vicente assured her. The old woman chuckled, wiping the tears at the corners of her eyes.
I watched everything with a smile and some nostalgia. As old as I was, I hadn't forgotten the warmth of a mother's love.
I still had the smile on when Vicente glanced at me.
"Nay… I'm with a guest," he said to his mother, a hand on her shoulder. "This is Do—"
"Martin… Martin Lardizabal, Señora. I'm a friend of your son," I said, removing my top hat and placing it over my chest.
Señora Triviño looked at me in surprise, likely not having registered my presence until then. She looked me up and down, then glanced at her son.
"Welcome… please, do come in, Señor. I hope you don't mind our little hut," she said with a slight bow, stepping closer to me. "And not Señora… you can call me Felicia."
Unlike in Spain or some other Spanish colonies, the term Señora was used in the Philippines mainly to address married women from the elite class.
"Not at all! You have a small but cozy-looking home," I said as I followed her and Triviño into the hut.
Like most bahay-kubo, the hut was elevated from the ground and accessed by a short set of stairs. Right behind the door was the sala, which occupied most of the hut's interior. There was another room, which I assumed was the bedroom, separated only by a piece of fabric draped over the doorframe.
I was led to the table near the window overlooking the river. The place was small, but it was neat and cozy. The pleasant scent of aged wood lingered in the air—until I caught a whiff of coffee. As I had already surmised in Marinduque, coffee wasn't a widespread drink and was considered a luxury by most, often saved for special occasions.
From outside, Vicente brought in a kettle filled with hot water. From the other room, Felicia returned with a small wooden box and a pair of porcelain cups. By the end of it, I had a cup of hot coffee in front of me and felt like I had caused the household an unnecessary disturbance.
"How about snacks, Señor?" said Felicia, her hands clasped in front of her.
"No, no need, Señora," I replied. I didn't want to be even more of a bother. "We had a heavy lunch in Malolos."
"Lunch? It's four o'clock now—you must be a little hungry from the travel," she said. "Please wait… there's someone who sells puto and kutsinta in the neighborhood."
"Vicente, entertain the guest while I'm out," she added, glancing back as she headed for the door.
Vicente sat across from me, staring at his cup of coffee. He had been silent since we entered the house—and noticeably avoided eye contact. I had a myriad of theories why.
When I thought I'd have to be the one to break the silence, Vicente finally asked a question.
"So… you're not surprised?" he asked me with a weak smile.
"I… am," I answered honestly.
He took a small sip from his cup and cleared his throat. "Well, now you know—I'm not from a well-to-do family, as I'm sure you assumed until now. You can do whatever you want with that information."
I chuckled and shook my head. I understood what he meant. This wasn't Europe, but the country still had a clear class divide.
When the Spaniards conquered the Philippines, they gave the pre-colonial datus and rajahs lands, government positions, and other privileges. Their descendants now formed what was called the Principalia—and they continued to hold most of the land and monopolize high-ranking government roles.
Just like with European aristocracy, there was prejudice against those from the lower class. Much like how Westerners looked down on the natives, the Principalia looked down on anyone outside the elite circles.
I couldn't help but wonder how many of his acquaintances and friends knew about his humble origins. And if his superiors were aware of it when he was given the rank of lieutenant. Much like government positions, the officer corps of the Filipino army was almost exclusively reserved for the elite.
"Nobility lies in character, Teniente," I said to him, staring him in the eyes.
He studied my face, seemingly gauging how serious I was. That mix of fear and embarrassment on his face slowly faded, replaced by a smile creeping onto his lips.
"You really are an odd one, Don Martin."