Vicente bent down and rummaged through the large selection of stones beneath our feet. When he stood up straight, he already had a nice flat pebble in the shape of a guitar pick in his hand.
He gazed into the flowing, calm waters that mirrored the golden glow of the setting sun. Then, he weighed the stone in his palm and, apparently satisfied, threw it in a whip-like motion.
Plip, plip, plip, plip… splash. The stone skipped four times before it dropped and was swallowed by the river. Vicente grinned.
"What you said earlier—did you mean that?" he asked, eyes still fixed on where the pebble had disappeared.
I crouched and searched for my own pebble along the rocky bank. It only took seconds before I found a somewhat flat stone, a bit on the heavier side, but I figured I could make it work with a little added strength.
Mimicking Vicente's motion, I threw the stone. The moment it left my hand, I felt a slight pain in my waist and instantly knew it was a terrible throw. The stone traveled flat through the air, then plunged straight into the water without a single skip. I clucked my tongue and took a breath of the cold air.
"I do," I said to him.
"So, you think a lowborn can rise in status?" he asked, a bit sheepishly. It was strange to see him that way—awkward and unsure—especially since he was usually so smug. That smugness was part of why I'd assumed he came from a wealthy family.
"Is there even such a thing as a lowborn? All men are created equal," I replied.
Only when I said it did I realize that although I'd always believed in the phrase, I hadn't truly lived it. Perhaps walking in someone else's shoes was the best cure for bias.
He laughed. "You're more radical than I thought. Your peers in the Principalia wouldn't agree."
I nodded. "I know. But it's the turn of the 20th century. Soon, an age will arrive where a man can be whoever he wants to be—if he works for it."
He kept laughing and shaking his head. "Well… I think you've got a severe case of optimism."
"It's inevitable," I replied, keeping a straight face. "If we Filipinos reject the notion that Westerners are superior, why should we continue to believe that some Filipinos are better than others?"
My words wiped the wide grin off his face. He looked away and let out a heavy sigh.
In the distance, a boat appeared. A man wearing a straw hat excitedly waved in our direction. Vicente waved back. We had been waiting for his father, a fisherman by trade, and it seemed the wait was over.
"I hope you're right."
"I am right," I said. "But first… we must deal with the Americans."
He turned to me with an apologetic smile. "You're a good man, Don Lardizabal. Impressive, even. I'm sorry if I ever… inconvenienced you."
I twisted my face and snorted. "What is wrong with you, Vicente? Go back to normal."
There was silence then we both chuckled.
---
Dinner was another ginataan dish—dried fish and munggo beans cooked in coconut milk. And of course, it was just as delicious as all ginataan dishes were. In fact, Felicia's slightly salty version paired even better with hot rice than Agapita's ginataang turingan.
Joining us at the dinner table was Vicente's father, Fernando Triviño. He was six years older than me, yet he looked far older than his age. His olive skin, already weathered, had been further darkened and wrinkled by hard work.
He was a man of few words, but he didn't seem stern. Age and toil hadn't erased the handsome, friendly face he had—which closely resembled that of his son.
"So, how's life as a soldier? I hope they're not treating you too badly," Felicia asked. "I heard that Heneral Luna sometimes beats his soldiers."
Vicente shook his head. "Well, luckily, I'm not in his direct command."
His father grunted. "The last time you wrote to us, you said you were with Heneral Diokno. I heard he went to Visayas."
"I was. I'm now assigned in Marinduque, and Don Martin has been treating me well," Vicente said.
Fernando Triviño just nodded. "That's good. Marinduque's far enough from the chaos in Manila."
Felicia, on the other hand, didn't take the news as calmly. Like a thief caught in the act, she snapped her eyes toward me, wide with surprise. "Don… Martin… you said?"
"Yeah," Vicente replied, grinning mischievously. "Don Martin here is the Gobernador Politico-Militar of Marinduque."
Felicia gasped and covered her mouth. Sitting right next to her, well within reach, she slapped Vicente's shoulder loudly. "You brat! Why didn't you tell us? We just fed the governor of Marinduque dried fish!"
Fernando, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to back away from the table. "We're sorry… Don Martin," he said, seated right next to me.
I laughed loudly, and it had the desired effect. The couple relaxed almost immediately.
"Well… your dried fish, Señora Felicia, is fit for royalty," I said, knowing I sounded sincere, especially since I had refilled my plate three times. "And I should be the one apologizing—for intruding on your home."
Felicia's face lit up. "No, no… you shouldn't be, gobernador. It's our honor."
"And I must apologize again, because I plan to stay here until Sunday," I said. "If you'll have me, that is."
Felicia glanced at her husband and then at her son. "We'd love to, Don Martin… but I don't think we'll be able to accommodate you comfortably."
I smiled at that.
If only they knew how much discomfort it would take to make a Vietnam War veteran feel uncomfortable, they wouldn't worry at all.
That night, at my insistence—given the limited space of the hut—we slept in the same room where we had eaten our lunch. Trivino and I lay on a banig, a handwoven sleeping mat made of nipa leaves, with only thin blankets to ward off the cold.
I slept soundly—better than I had in years.