“One need not bellow to be believed. Ears seal automatically against anger, and unreason takes over when an argument becomes a tirade.”

― Carlos P. Romulo, I Walked With Heroes

-x-

Festivals are fun, and if there is one thing Spanish derived culture is known for, it is the sheer number of fiestas and reasons not to be working. And of course, most of these are religious holidays. Unavoidable. Without God, what would be the world, after all?

Let us just get one thing out of the way first. I am a religious person. Why would I not be? I was not merely selling Elias a line; my existence is a miracle. I am the creation of God, not Rizal. I am here, I exist, I am the captain of my fate, the master of my soul!

So to spend time attending mass, compared to my father who simply did not bother, was not a waste of time. Granted, for much the same reason as my father, I saw no inherent good in listening to the moral exhortations of the raging hypocrites that are this era’s priesthood.

To sit and listen to their self-serving sermons was a waste of everyone's time, but few dared not to attend.

The fun and games of the festival were for the masses, but the highlight of the day was supposed to be the mass said in honor of San Diego’s patron saint and there the homily to be uttered by Padre Damaso.

Just before twilight, most of the town had already crammed themselves into the church. The notables of the town occupied the front pews, and the gobernadorcillo and guests had their own line of padded chairs.

In the closer rows elderly women clutched rosaries and white handkerchiefs and their young granddaughters sat beside them, to remind them when they should look overcome with emotion and piety and then weep at the eloquence of the speaker. None of them understand a lick of Latin or Spanish. Such a poignant show of religiosity, is not?

For all the rest – people lucky enough to get the remaining bench seats would thence not be able to move, for the aisles were also packed tight with people. Even at nearly six o’clock in the evening, darkness and the cold of night dropping early in December, the press of bodies lent sweltering heat to the interior of the church. Children are crying, only to be forcibly shushed by their mothers.

And now Padre Damaso Verdolagas has ascended to the pulpit where he would deliver his sermon. It is set into a pillar somewhat three-fourths of the way down the altar, right in front of the right wing of the church. Below him sits 'the holy ghost', the prompter whispering up with the papers of the priest’s prepared speech.

He looks vaguely ill, and not just because of recovering from being beaten up by Elias and thrown into a ditch. His voice is a little hoarse as he proclaims the sermon will be in two parts- the first in Spanish and then in Tagalog.

Maria Clara has a favored spot at the very front of the pews, and her head is bowed in prayer. Though as scion of town I had the right to sit nearby, I had already decided to sit a little further back. With Old Tasio, Juliano Navidad, Elias (now Simoun), and Sisa and her children, we have enough people to occupy a single pew.

Padre Damaso’s face scrunches up as he notices we are in the pew directly across his pulpit. Our eyes meet, and for a while he glares hatefully at me. I keep staring. A small smile graces my face.

He grimaces in indignation, but eventually huffs and looks away.

To be honest, this is half the reason I decided to make that little game earlier. He had no time to throw away most of his prepared speech. And while he could lecture about pretending to have virtue and buying off sins with money, well… that speaks against the whole concept of selling indulgences, does it not?

Padre Damaso begins by greeting the luminaries attending this mass, which includes among them the alcalde mayor of the province.

At first he is all indignant fire and fervor, haranguing us about the priceless worth of the immortal soul that should not be compromised with the lure of money, and to beware the of those who went abroad and gained a little learning but no wisdom.

In between pauses he would look down and see me still staring.

I shall not recount the content of his sermon, for in truth it is meaningless to me. His motive here is to show up the other luminaries like the Dominican Padre Sybila and the Augustinian Padre Martin. The alcalde mayor has even begun to slump back and close his eyes.

He blusters some more about the incomparable virtues of San Diego de Alcala who would lick the sores of the beggars, and whom died speaking Latin without knowing Latin, a gift of God towards his beloved San Diego giving him learning of the holy tongue of the Church through charity instead of book learning, so no matter how many blows may strike the truly virtuous never perish in ignorance!

His eyes flick down and sees me still staring.

My eyes are locked onto his eyes. My little smile unwavering.

He is beginning to sweat.

Ironically, sitting and doing nothing is not a waste of time for me. For though I carried with me the Spirit of Human Knowledge, my brain is not capable of multi-tasking. It is only when I am not doing anything else can I truly borrow its power to spread my awareness out into the world.

Still staring.

“The face of the devil-!” Padre Damaso screams out suddenly. “Pluck out its eyes!”

The people do not mind this non sequitur exclamation, because his homily had lost coherence long before then. There were young men from the city who had been cajoled into listening to the sermon, told that Fray Verdolagas was a greater speaker than Fray Martin from Batangas; a nation so starved for entertainment that even sermons were spectacles. Now they stand up up, fuming, and left muttering about the waste of time and money. They had paid many pesos for this sermon; it was a scam!

But because there are too many people, it is impossible to leave by the main doors. They have to leave by way of the rectory doors, shamelessly and impudently crossing around the altar in full view of everyone.

They are met outside by an indio child with oddly intense eyes, asking them if they would rather hear about something more productive. Don Crisostomo has a presentation to make later this evening.

That they are so offended by an unproductive use of their time, perhaps it was fair for their money to be compensated for by real talk of the future among their intellectual equals.

They are invited to my presentation, an invitation made only to those brave enough to defy convention. Basilio shows them some red embossed cards.

They accept, each taking a card, and oddly disquieted by that child’s oddly intense gaze. A failed sacristan of a child, what zealotry the Church had failed to instill upon an innocent mind the devil might yet makes his work.

It is hot, and itchy, and my butt and knees are beginning to hurt sitting on this hard bench. Electric fans are not yet a thing to sap the heat of the huddled masses. But here I am – still staring. Still smiling.

Padre Damaso is vainly trying to continue to speak, but his voice has begun to crack and grow shrill. His face is ashen, and his grip on the pulpit is shaking. He has begun scolding the indio for not showing respect to the priests, these ungrateful peons forgetting the great pains others have worked for their salvation!

He speaks about sinners who did not attend confession, who died in prison without the sacraments, of families accursed and puffed-up little halfbreeds, and of disrespectful students and prodigal heirs, of little philosophers without any merits to leave after their meaningless lives, and to all these insulting allusions, there can only be one response -

Staaaare.

Though I sit here, in my mind’s eye I can all but see Doggol grinning at me. Doggol stop. You are a dog. You cannot go Full Nicholas Cage. Ghk. Stop trying to make me laugh!

Damnation. My face likely looks like that now.

Maximum Caaaage.

Padre Damaso has swallowed his spit and began coughing.

Yes, of course I and many others know this is a slur against my father. Were I still such the callow hot-blooded youth, then this is a mortal insult, an unforgivable affront!

And it still is.

This is probably very petty of me, but if I must be a moral man then every moment is an opportunity. They say that the best revenge is living well, so – all I have to do is to sit here staaaare to press my existence upon his percipience. Whenever he shuts his eyes, let him see this self-satisfied face of mine. It is the most effortless of act of retaliation I can muster, if I may not murder.

Padre Damaso has begun to drink water and eat little slices of cake up, right up there at the pulpit. Now he has begun his Tagalog-language sermon. Whatever eloquence and stately demeanor he wanted to present against the other priestly orders, it is long gone. He is sweating like the fat pig that he is.

The time is not right. Suffer well old priest, until you can fully pay for your sins. Cheater. Rapist. Thief.

I feel a little tingle, and only now do I flick my eyes away from Padre Damaso. It is Padre Sybila, and the beautiful young priest is likewise staring at me with focused attention.

He smiles back and I nod in return. He blinks in surprise, and smirks.

-x-

And now, comes twilight, and comes my time to speak.

Capitan Tiago glowers at me as I greet him by the town’s meeting hall. “To court the feelings of the masses is foolish of you, Crisostomo. The indio does not know any loyalty. You are telling them only to steal from you!”

“Perhaps. But a reputation for generosity is useful, as you well know, sir. Gambling is an excellent way to get money into the hands of certain people who can get things done,” I replied.

He blinks, and stares at me through narrowed eyes. Sometimes a father does not want a too-capable son-in-law. “What are you up to?”

“Please, enter. I will reveal it all in due time.”

He clacks his tongue and passes me by.

After him visitors arrived one by one. Teacher Navidad greeted the locals while I accosted the important foreigners and personages. Seating was important. Those who were most influential had real seats up front and to the sides. Everyone else had to sit on benches.

And soon enough -

-x-

I stand in front of the minuscule space at the head of the room and raise my hands. And then I bow.

“Everyone, I greet you! I am Crisostomo Ibarra, and I am honored, truly honored that you have deigned to attend this little presentation of mine. It is almost a dream to stand her among such luminaries – even our great Governor-General himself! Oh you grace us so much, sir!

“The Church too is welcome here, for the Dark Ages could not have been lifted without the efforts of the monks and the monasteries and the preservation of knowledge from the barbarians. The universe that God created is vast and wondrous, and we are given minds to be able to fully appreciate his glory. Padre Sybilia of the Dominicans, I welcome you!

“And you – and you- and you!” I begin to list and flatter various other famous people.

Then I notice very keenly that a certain bewhiskered John Foreman is also in attendance, a man who would write “The Philippine Islands: A Political, Geographical, Ethnographical, Social and Commercial History of the Philippine Archipelago” a paternalistic but charmingly candid work that would be found most useful by the American government in their pacification of the isles after the Spanish-American War and the Philippine-American War.

He is a Fellow of the UK’s Royal Geographical Society, allowed to append F.R.G.H. to his name, which he used in all his publications. He represents a British company engaged in the manufacture of steam engines, which gives him plenty of reason to travel and engage in his ethnographical curiosity.

He has a small Philippine Hawk-eagle (Nisaetus philippensis) wearing an orange vest perched docilely on his shoulder, and he sits next to the Governor-General. They whisper to each other. From one cramped hell of human odors to another, and perhaps the same amount of useless sermoning.

Our eyes meet, and his puzzled expression flickers as the oddly tame eagle on his shoulder which rubs its head against his face like a cat. He smiles and nods his head in thanks. ‘Gracias, señor para el regalo’, he mouths out silently.

Of course he is here, I have made sure he would be unable to resist the peculiarity of these events.

I grin back, then whirl about.

“And now, let the lights die! Let us begin!”

Click. Whirr.

-x-

Image projection technology was very old technology. Magic lanterns and slides date all the way to 1645 and the Dutch scientist Christiaan Huygens. Commercialization of magic lanterns for education and storytelling started early this century, and hyalotypes – painted lantern slides, was the movies before the movies. Savoyards, magic lantern traveling showmen, were common since the 1700s and the use of magic lanterns for education was a staple since Scottish lecturer Henry Moyes’s tour of America in 1785-86, in which he recommended all college laboratories procure one.

The screen, a curtain of silk, shows a color map of South East Asia and East Asia. Arrowed lines marked important sea routes, from Singapore to Hong Kong to Batavia to Manila to Tokyo and then leading out to the wide Pacific.

“FIRST, let us come to understand that while a gentleman might see the grubbing for wealth as boorish and crass, it is ALWAYS in the interests of a nation to seek to accumulate wealth. An increase in strategic resources and a steady flow of taxable income is the literal strength of a nation – and therefore I submit to you: that pursuit of prosperity is in fact a patriotic duty.

“I shall tell you a painful secret: our Spanish crown sends ten million pesos every year in maintenance of this colony. And in return in taxes and proceeds, she receives less than that in return. We are not bled dry; we are a stone. We give our mother nation little more than a pittance as a sop to her dignity. Almost never have our taxes overcome civil expenses.

“The Ethics of Greed finds the common pulse that binds humanity, where competition and national pride might cause conflict, for not all service comes in the form of blood. The Philippines is a poor country, and a helpless one. We are but children, doing little than chores while our parents work hard to keep a roof over our heads and defend us from the harshness of the world outside.

“I have called you here to ask: When does the Philippines grow up?

“I have begged you here to answer the question: How can wealth be cultivated in this land that for centuries many have failed to spur into action?

"This is not prophecy: this is fact. If we are not useful, then we will be removed. Alone we shall wither on the vine. Now only Cuba and the Philippines stand as pillars to the Spanish Empire; take one away and the structure falls to its knees. A destiny manifest that we must struggle against with every fiber of our being.

“The duty of the man in peace is to prepare for war, and so let none of us rest easy in ignorance and be left adrift in that moment when wealth ceases to be a treasure and must burn itself to become power. It is the duty of a true Filipino to amass wealth, to live in largesse, and give nobly back to our mother Spain. Because for four hundred years these isles have remained provincial and still – but the world shrinks with every passing day, and no longer can we depend on remoteness and poverty as a defence from unwelcome attention.

“The nation with the most millionaires in the world is America. The nation with the richest man in the world is also America, and also the most billionaires. It is arguable even that John D. Rockefeller is not just the richest man in American history but also all of history. Unlike storied nobility of Europe, most of these men created their wealth within their own lifetimes.

“Meanwhile here in the Philippines the number of self-made millionaires can be counted on two hands and two feet. Among these present, our esteemed host Capitan Diago is one of them.

“I am the other.

“And in tonight’s lecture, I shall speak to you of my plan to make every single damn one of you a millionaire within the next ten years.”

-x-

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