The Jupiter Effect

The Jupiter Effect

by Katrina Tuvera

Copyright to this digital edition © 2006, 2014 by KATRINA TUVERA

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author and the publisher.

Published and exclusively distributed by

ANVIL PUBLISHING INC.

7th Floor, Quad Alpha Centrum Building

125 Pioneer St., Mandaluyong City 1550

Philippines

Telephones: 4774752, 4774755

www.anvilpublishing.com

Front cover painting entitled Martial Law by Romeo Forbes courtesy of his family and Gigo Alampay of www.canvas.ph

Cover and interior design by Ani V. Habúlan

ISBN 9789712729010 (e-book)

Version 1.0.1

This novel is for Albert Karlo T. Llave

and all my other nephews and nieces

too young or far away to remember

the martial law years.

It is also in memory of my grandmother,

Enrica Capiendo Tuvera.

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

author’s note

WHILE some of the characters in this book are based on historical figures, and many of the events portrayed did occur in the Philippines from the 1960s to the early 1980s, I must emphasize that this story and the characters in it are fictional.

For research materials while I was writing this novel, I relied heavily on The Daily Express, The Times Journal, Malaya and The Manila Times, particularly news accounts from 1965-1983. I’ve taken from these sources—as well as other publications of that period such as Tadhana: The History of the Filipino People by Ferdinand E. Marcos—some lines that appear here as dialogue.

acknowledgments

I THANK the University of the Philippines Institute for Creative Writing for setting me off on this path twelve years ago, in Baguio; De La Salle University-Taft Department of Literature for the care and patience; the Hedgebrook Retreat for Women Writers; MacDowell Colony; Blue Mountain Center; Hawthornden Castle; Ledig House; Vermont Studio Center and Ragdale Foundation for the shelter, nourishment and precious solitude they provided me while I worked on this novel.

My thanks to Patricia Abogado, Jojoe Hervieux, Kim Mora, Roberto Quimbo, Geri Villarin, their spouses and children, and Rico Quimbo for being my hosts and family away from home. For their critical reading and valuable suggestions, I am equally indebted to Patricia Alano-Reguyal, Caroline S. Hau, Anais Hervieux, Ramon Navarra Jr., Isabelita O. Reyes, Bob Shacochis and Mariam Tuvera. I thank Karina Bolasco, Mr. Greg Brillantes, Butch Dalisay, Marj Evasco, Mr. Juan Flavier, Jing Hidalgo, Marra Lanot, Zack Linmark, Shirley Lua and Paolo Manalo for their consistent support and encouragement. My mother and late father were always my greatest source of inspiration and wisdom; to them, I shall remain forever grateful.

I am indebted to the family of the late artist Romeo Forbes and to Gigo Alampay of www.canvas.ph for granting us permission to use the artwork that appears on the cover.

Many thanks to Ani Habúlan and Anvil Publishing, always a pleasure to work with; and to Edna Apua, Elena C. Bragat, Ariel Buenviaje, Alenita A. Chen, Mayjar Duran, Cristina Escuadra, Rebecca B. Miranda, Ma. Theresa Ong, Ernesto Pensotes, Alfredo Rodriguez, Evan San Miguel, Ameurfina Santos, Marissa M. Scherer and Henry Velasco—all martial law babies and friends I grew up with in the ’70s and ’80s whose company and good humor sustain me to this day.

Finally, once again and most of all, my gratitude and love to Rudy, my best bud, doting dad to Greta and Basil.

1

GABY, the only Contreras daughter, was a difficult child to conceive. Her mother Emi was thirty-eight, past two miscarriages before and after the birth of her son; almost near despair when she and Julian discovered she was again pregnant. The day Gaby was born, Julian rushed home from the hospital and pulled out a garden hoe from a box in the garage. Then, squatting on the east side of the yard, he carefully planted a mango seed in honor of his new, five-pound baby girl.

In those days only a low picket fence no higher than Julian’s knee encircled his lawn and this had not been a bad idea then because the district they lived in, in the southern outskirts of Greater Manila, was new and barren. The roads were not paved but covered only with loose dirt that made driving on rainy days precarious. On weekends, in that young neighborhood, the couple would stand at the end of their driveway staring at nothing for miles around, just walls of cogon grass, tips bent in the breeze, radiant under the savage rays of a dying sun. They sat on the curb, Julian and Emilia, newborn dozing quietly on her father’s knee, and looking upon that landscape they talked about what they could one day hope to offer their children, and how far in this life the four of them, together, would go.

Julian and Emi waited a whole year before having the baby baptized in a tiny chapel inside the Nichols Air Base. Gaby’s godmother was Emi’s old friend from nursing school; for godfather, Julian chose Raul Estavilla, a colleague and old buddy from when he used to work at the Manila Daily. In the baby book she’d find years later, Gabriela Leonardo Contreras would read this of her baptismal party, of her father and ninong, written by Emi: W/ everyone else gone, J & R retreat to basement. Counted 11/2 cases of beer before going to bed; woke up to find all but 4 bottles gone and two men whining about headaches, bigger babies than the one just baptized.

The day Julian asked Raul Estavilla to be Gaby’s godfather, the latter had demanded, I prefer to be called ‘Tito,’ not ‘Ninong.’

May I ask why?

‘Ninong,’ came the mock serious reply, is obviously an enforced title. But ‘Tito’ sounds like blood’s involved, yes? I like that.

You are a very strange man.

But sweet, you must admit. Estavilla looked into his friend’s eyes then. Truly, Jules, I am honored, I accept. Thank you. I won’t forget birthdays or Christmas and all occasions in between. But once in a while I might forget if she’s a boy or a girl.

When that happens, I’ll know you’ve been drinking again. The father paused. All right, then . . . kumpare!

Ah! That I like, too.

Julian’s other child, his son, was Francisco, nicknamed Kiko, and unlike his sister he would have more vivid memories of their neighborhood in its early, undeveloped days. There once was a creek that years later would dry up, but back then it used to swell with the rains, spilling onto the streets and drenching Emi’s sunken lawn. Julian threatened to have the city engineer fired if nothing was done before the monsoon season began and the very next day workers came, a dozen of them with shovels and pipes. For two days they dug and, in gratitude, Emi sent them boiled vegetables and rice for lunch.

Houses were streets apart from one another. Kiko had only one playmate, a blonde boy, Harry Kellner, son of an American diplomat living three blocks away. The two often met a short distance from the Contreras house, at a trail hidden by tall grass, between rows of aratiles with branches nearly stripped of leaves so that what little sunlight filtered through the twigs fell on dry soil, forming a web of shadows. Here the boys pretended to be campers, or soldiers, or cops; talked about Kiko’s baby sister; fought sometimes because Kiko lapsed into Tagalog then could not say in English when Harry asked what the words meant. The day the Kellners flew back to Virginia, Harry cried. His father’s assignment in Manila was over but, sniffling, he vowed to write, to come back, in fact, and marry Gaby. They were outrageous promises no young boy, thousands of miles away, would be able to keep.

But young sister Gaby would soon replace Harry. Kiko taught her about the TV show Combat, how to act out the roles of Vic Morrow and Ric Jason. On the bamboo bed beside the driveway where Luz, the maid, sometimes took her nap, Kiko became Sergeant Saunders (because, he said, Vic Morrow was the real star of the show). They turned the bed into an army jeep. Kiko never explained why Gaby, as the higher-ranking Lieutenant Hanley, had to end up in the driver’s seat following the Sergeant’s orders. Brother was always the hero. Only he got to throw grenades—really old Eveready batteries wrapped in newspaper—at the band of soldiers hot on their trail.

Nineteen sixty-nine was a year of firsts for Kiko. On TV he watched with his parents the black-and-white images of a man in a jumpsuit skip-hopping on the surface of the moon. Kiko wanted to know why the man moved slow and funny.

No gravity on the moon, Julian explained.

What is ‘gravity’?

It’s what keeps us from flying off when the earth spins.

It’s what keeps us grounded, Emi chimed in.

Down to earth? Julian suggested. It was a private joke between them. Only Kiko was not amazed. He had looked up at the moon thousands of times plus, he knew, the man in the jumpsuit was, after all, still just a man. Although he seemed to have much power, the boy would think a day later, when his name came up again and suddenly a Filipina would stand out in a crowd of international beauties. She had been the dark horse, this young girl, but most sensible when asked: What would you do if Neil Armstrong paid you a visit at home? The brown-skinned teenager beamed. Why, I’d treat him like any other man tired from a very long trip. Ask him if he was hungry, make him something to eat, give him a place to rest. She became the first Binibining Pilipinas to win the Miss Universe crown, prompting Filipinos to boast that while the USA may have taken control of the moon, the Philippines had conquered the universe! Coming home to a land where beauty titles elevated a woman’s social standing, Miss Universe 1969 was mobbed and reduced to tears at the airport.

That was the year too, of Julian’s first trip to America and this, more than the man on the moon, thrilled Kiko most of all. He had seen the moon with his own eyes but America only in pictures and the thought that his father was off to that land filled him with awe. When Julian asked what the boy wanted him to bring home, Kiko, remembering his friend Harry, replied: Blonde hair.

He’d been hearing the words state visit for weeks and even Emi who was not easily ruffled made frantic trips to the tailor to have decent suits—americanas —made for her husband. Julian was going there with the President who’d just won his second term, to meet an American with a funny-looking nose. Funny Nose was a friend of the Philippines, Julian said; he and the President agreed on many things. Over supper Julian repeatedly talked about Veeyet-nam and the Veeyet-kong. Kiko liked the sound of these words but, unlike what he’d done with gravity, did not bother to ask his father what they meant.

On December 30, 1969, a month after that U.S. visit, Julian Contreras and Raul Estavilla, along with thousands of others, braved the heat at the Luneta Grandstand listening to the President’s second inaugural address.

My countrymen, the President began. "Four years have passed since I took my first oath of office as president of this republic. We have traveled far since then, relying not only on the leadership my government has provided, but more so on the Filipino’s innate capacity for dedication and discipline.

Yet I hear the strident cries of protest against selfdiscipline from the gilded throats of the privileged and the cynically articulate—they who have yet to encounter the implacable face of poverty. To them I now address this challenge: Share the nation’s burden with the grace and the courage of the poor. Find common cause with the people. Remember, though you may think yourselves exempt from the grueling task of nation-building, that like the rest of us you must be true to yourselves as people of a poor country struggling to be prosperous. Whatever our personal circumstances, we are all citizens in poverty.

As the President spoke, he kept looking fondly behind him, at his beautiful wife and three children. He had ordered tight security. From the sky above the park, helicopters equipped with machine guns flew in circles. Along the bay, navy boats were on full alert.

Trouble would not begin just then but weeks later, after the President faced Congress for his state of the nation address. He descended the steps of the Legislative Building on Burgos Street and was met by a mob, 50,000-strong, of students, laborers, farmers denouncing his victory. He’d cheated, they shouted; his men poured acid on ballot boxes in municipalities where he knew he would lose.

Buwaya! they spat out, lifting over their heads a makeshift coffin, inside a crocodile with its mouth stuffed with bundles of money.

Makibaka! Huwag matakot! they yelled, daring others to join their cause.

The President’s security was quick to respond, surrounding him immediately, shielding him from broken bottles thrown by the furious crowd but almost forgetting his stunning First Lady who stumbled and had to be lifted like a sack of rice to the waiting limousine. Back in Malacañang, the presidential palace, Julian watched horrified as the crowd grew to 70,000, then 100,000, marching from Mendiola. Days later people crashed the gates of Malacañang but were repelled by tear gas and, when this failed, bullets. Newspapers claimed the death of six students. They called it Bloody Friday.

For weeks the President and his family could not leave the palace. Neither could some of his men, including Julian who communicated with Emi only by phone, asking to be sent clean clothes and underwear. Kiko asked if his father had once again gone off to America. To him, Emi simply said, No, no. But the boy knew she was mad, because to others who