Chương Chương 16 · THE TRIBULATIONS OF A CHINESE

In the evening of that same Saturday, Quiroga, the Chinese, who aspired

to the creation of a consulate for his nation, gave a dinner in the

rooms over his bazaar, located in the Escolta. His feast was well

attended: friars, government employees, soldiers, merchants, all of

them his customers, partners or patrons, were to be seen there, for his

store supplied the curates and the conventos with all their

necessities, he accepted the chits of all the employees, and he had

servants who were discreet, prompt, and complaisant. The friars

themselves did not disdain to pass whole hours in his store, sometimes

in view of the public, sometimes in the chambers with agreeable

company.

That night, then, the sala presented a curious aspect, being filled

with friars and clerks seated on Vienna chairs, stools of black wood,

and marble benches of Cantonese origin, before little square tables,

playing cards or conversing among themselves, under the brilliant glare

of the gilt chandeliers or the subdued light of the Chinese lanterns,

which were brilliantly decorated with long silken tassels. On the walls

there was a lamentable medley of landscapes in dim and gaudy colors,

painted in Canton or Hongkong, mingled with tawdry chromos of odalisks,

half-nude women, effeminate lithographs of Christ, the deaths of the

just and of the sinners—made by Jewish houses in Germany to be sold in

the Catholic countries. Nor were there lacking the Chinese prints on

red paper representing a man seated, of venerable aspect, with a calm,

smiling face, behind whom stood a servant, ugly, horrible, diabolical,

threatening, armed with a lance having a wide, keen blade. Among the

Indians some call this figure Mohammed, others Santiago, [34] we do not

know why, nor do the Chinese themselves give a very clear explanation

of this popular pair. The pop of champagne corks, the rattle of

glasses, laughter, cigar smoke, and that odor peculiar to a Chinese

habitation—a mixture of punk, opium, and dried fruits—completed the

collection.

Dressed as a Chinese mandarin in a blue-tasseled cap, Quiroga moved

from room to room, stiff and straight, but casting watchful glances

here and there as though to assure himself that nothing was being

stolen. Yet in spite of this natural distrust, he exchanged handshakes

with each guest, greeted some with a smile sagacious and humble, others

with a patronizing air, and still others with a certain shrewd look

that seemed to say, “I know! You didn’t come on my account, you came

for the dinner!”

And Quiroga was right! That fat gentleman who is now praising him and

speaking of the advisability of a Chinese consulate in Manila,

intimating that to manage it there could be no one but Quiroga, is the

Señor Gonzalez who hides behind the pseudonym Pitilí when he attacks

Chinese immigration through the columns of the newspapers. That other,

an elderly man who closely examines the lamps, pictures, and other

furnishings with grimaces and ejaculations of disdain, is Don Timoteo

Pelaez, Juanito’s father, a merchant who inveighs against the Chinese

competition that is ruining his business. The one over there, that

thin, brown individual with a sharp look and a pale smile, is the

celebrated originator of the dispute over Mexican pesos, which so

troubled one of Quiroga’s protéges: that government clerk is regarded

in Manila as very clever. That one farther on, he of the frowning look

and unkempt mustache, is a government official who passes for a most

meritorious fellow because he has the courage to speak ill of the

business in lottery tickets carried on between Quiroga and an exalted

dame in Manila society. The fact is that two thirds of the tickets go

to China and the few that are left in Manila are sold at a premium of a

half-real. The honorable gentleman entertains the conviction that some

day he will draw the first prize, and is in a rage at finding himself

confronted with such tricks.

The dinner, meanwhile, was drawing to an end. From the dining-room

floated into the sala snatches of toasts, interruptions, bursts and

ripples of laughter. The name of Quiroga was often heard mingled with

the words “consul,” “equality,” “justice.” The amphitryon himself did

not eat European dishes, so he contented himself with drinking a glass

of wine with his guests from time to time, promising to dine with those

who were not seated at the first table.

Simoun, who was present, having already dined, was in the sala talking

with some merchants, who were complaining of business conditions:

everything was going wrong, trade was paralyzed, the European exchanges

were exorbitantly high. They sought information from the jeweler or

insinuated to him a few ideas, with the hope that these would be

communicated to the Captain-General. To all the remedies suggested

Simoun responded with a sarcastic and unfeeling exclamation about

nonsense, until one of them in exasperation asked him for his opinion.

“My opinion?” he retorted. “Study how other nations prosper, and then

do as they do.”

“And why do they prosper, Señor Simoun?”

Simoun replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

“The port works, which weigh so heavily upon commerce, and the port not

yet completed!” sighed Don Timoteo Pelaez. “A Penelope’s web, as my son

says, that is spun and unspun. The taxes—”

“You complaining!” exclaimed another. “Just as the General has decreed

the destruction of houses of light materials! [35] And you with a

shipment of galvanized iron!”

“Yes,” rejoined Don Timoteo, “but look what that decree cost me! Then,

the destruction will not be carried out for a month, not until Lent

begins, and other shipments may arrive. I would have wished them

destroyed right away, but—Besides, what are the owners of those houses

going to buy from me if they are all poor, all equally beggars?”

“You can always buy up their shacks for a trifle.”

“And afterwards have the decree revoked and sell them back at double

the price—that’s business!”

Simoun smiled his frigid smile. Seeing Quiroga approach, he left the

querulous merchants to greet the future consul, who on catching sight

of him lost his satisfied expression and assigned a countenance like

those of the merchants, while he bent almost double.

Quiroga respected the jeweler greatly, not only because he knew him to

be very wealthy, but also on account of his rumored influence with the

Captain-General. It was reported that Simoun favored Quiroga’s

ambitions, that he was an advocate for the consulate, and a certain

newspaper hostile to the Chinese had alluded to him in many

paraphrases, veiled allusions, and suspension points, in the celebrated

controversy with another sheet that was favorable to the queued folk.

Some prudent persons added with winks and half-uttered words that his

Black Eminence was advising the General to avail himself of the Chinese

in order to humble the tenacious pride of the natives.

“To hold the people in subjection,” he was reported to have said,

“there’s nothing like humiliating them and humbling them in their own

eyes.”

To this end an opportunity had soon presented itself. The guilds of

mestizos and natives were continually watching one another, venting

their bellicose spirits and their activities in jealousy and distrust.

At mass one day the gobernadorcillo of the natives was seated on a

bench to the right, and, being extremely thin, happened to cross one of

his legs over the other, thus adopting a nonchalant attitude, in order

to expose his thighs more and display his pretty shoes. The

gobernadorcillo of the guild of mestizos, who was seated on the

opposite bench, as he had bunions, and could not cross his legs on

account of his obesity, spread his legs wide apart to expose a plain

waistcoat adorned with a beautiful gold chain set with diamonds. The

two cliques comprehended these maneuvers and joined battle. On the

following Sunday all the mestizos, even the thinnest, had large

paunches and spread their legs wide apart as though on horseback, while

the natives placed one leg over the other, even the fattest, there

being one cabeza de barangay who turned a somersault. Seeing these

movements, the Chinese all adopted their own peculiar attitude, that of

sitting as they do in their shops, with one leg drawn back and upward,

the other swinging loose. There resulted protests and petitions, the

police rushed to arms ready to start a civil war, the curates rejoiced,

the Spaniards were amused and made money out of everybody, until the

General settled the quarrel by ordering that every one should sit as

the Chinese did, since they were the heaviest contributors, even though

they were not the best Catholics. The difficulty for the mestizos and

natives then was that their trousers were too tight to permit of their

imitating the Chinese. But to make the intention of humiliating them

the more evident, the measure was carried out with great pomp and

ceremony, the church being surrounded by a troop of cavalry, while all

those within were sweating. The matter was carried to the Cortes, but

it was repeated that the Chinese, as the ones who paid, should have

their way in the religious ceremonies, even though they apostatized and

laughed at Christianity immediately after. The natives and the mestizos

had to be content, learning thus not to waste time over such fatuity.

[36]

Quiroga, with his smooth tongue and humble smile, was lavishly and

flatteringly attentive to Simoun. His voice was caressing and his bows

numerous, but the jeweler cut his blandishments short by asking

brusquely:

“Did the bracelets suit her?”

At this question all Quiroga’s liveliness vanished like a dream. His

caressing voice became plaintive; he bowed lower, gave the Chinese

salutation of raising his clasped hands to the height of his face, and

groaned: “Ah, Señor Simoun! I’m lost, I’m ruined!” [37]

“How, Quiroga, lost and ruined when you have so many bottles of

champagne and so many guests?”

Quiroga closed his eyes and made a grimace. Yes, the affair of that

afternoon, that affair of the bracelets, had ruined him. Simoun smiled,

for when a Chinese merchant complains it is because all is going well,

and when he makes a show that things are booming it is quite certain

that he is planning an assignment or flight to his own country.

“You didn’t know that I’m lost, I’m ruined? Ah, Señor Simoun, I’m

busted!” To make his condition plainer, he illustrated the word by

making a movement as though he were falling in collapse.

Simoun wanted to laugh, but restrained himself and said that he knew

nothing, nothing at all, as Quiroga led him to a room and closed the

door. He then explained the cause of his misfortune.

Three diamond bracelets that he had secured from Simoun on pretense of

showing them to his wife were not for her, a poor native shut up in her

room like a Chinese woman, but for a beautiful and charming lady, the

friend of a powerful man, whose influence was needed by him in a

certain deal in which he could clear some six thousand pesos. As he did

not understand feminine tastes and wished to be gallant, the Chinese

had asked for the three finest bracelets the jeweler had, each priced

at three to four thousand pesos. With affected simplicity and his most

caressing smile, Quiroga had begged the lady to select the one she

liked best, and the lady, more simple and caressing still, had declared

that she liked all three, and had kept them.

Simoun burst out into laughter.

“Ah, sir, I’m lost, I’m ruined!” cried the Chinese, slapping himself

lightly with his delicate hands; but the jeweler continued his

laughter.

“Ugh, bad people, surely not a real lady,” went on the Chinaman,

shaking his head in disgust. “What! She has no decency, while me, a

Chinaman, me always polite! Ah, surely she not a real lady—a cigarrera

has more decency!”

“They’ve caught you, they’ve caught you!” exclaimed Simoun, poking him

in the chest.

“And everybody’s asking for loans and never pays—what about that?

Clerks, officials, lieutenants, soldiers—” he checked them off on his

long-nailed fingers—“ah, Señor Simoun, I’m lost, I’m busted!”

“Get out with your complaints,” said Simoun. “I’ve saved you from many

officials that wanted money from you. I’ve lent it to them so that they

wouldn’t bother you, even when I knew that they couldn’t pay.”

“But, Señor Simoun, you lend to officials; I lend to women, sailors,

everybody.”

“I bet you get your money back.”

“Me, money back? Ah, surely you don’t understand! When it’s lost in

gambling they never pay. Besides, you have a consul, you can force

them, but I haven’t.”

Simoun became thoughtful. “Listen, Quiroga,” he said, somewhat

abstractedly, “I’ll undertake to collect what the officers and sailors

owe you. Give me their notes.”

Quiroga again fell to whining: they had never given him any notes.

“When they come to you asking for money, send them to me. I want to

help you.”

The grateful Quiroga thanked him, but soon fell to lamenting again

about the bracelets. “A cigarrera wouldn’t be so shameless!” he

repeated.

“The devil!” exclaimed Simoun, looking askance at the Chinese, as

though studying him. “Exactly when I need the money and thought that

you could pay me! But it can all be arranged, as I don’t want you to

fail for such a small amount. Come, a favor, and I’ll reduce to seven

the nine thousand pesos you owe me. You can get anything you wish

through the Customs—boxes of lamps, iron, copper, glassware, Mexican

pesos—you furnish arms to the conventos, don’t you?”

The Chinese nodded affirmation, but remarked that he had to do a good

deal of bribing. “I furnish the padres everything!”

“Well, then,” added Simoun in a low voice, “I need you to get in for me

some boxes of rifles that arrived this evening. I want you to keep them

in your warehouse; there isn’t room for all of them in my house.”

Quiroga began to show symptoms of fright.

“Don’t get scared, you don’t run any risk. These rifles are to be

concealed, a few at a time, in various dwellings, then a search will be

instituted, and many people will be sent to prison. You and I can make

a haul getting them set free. Understand me?”

Quiroga wavered, for he was afraid of firearms. In his desk he had an

empty revolver that he never touched without turning his head away and

closing his eyes.

“If you can’t do it, I’ll have to apply to some one else, but then I’ll

need the nine thousand pesos to cross their palms and shut their eyes.”

“All right, all right!” Quiroga finally agreed. “But many people will

be arrested? There’ll be a search, eh?”

When Quiroga and Simoun returned to the sala they found there, in

animated conversation, those who had finished their dinner, for the

champagne had loosened their tongues and stirred their brains. They

were talking rather freely.

In a group where there were a number of government clerks, some ladies,

and Don Custodio, the topic was a commission sent to India to make

certain investigations about footwear for the soldiers.

“Who compose it?” asked an elderly lady.

“A colonel, two other officers, and his Excellency’s nephew.”

“Four?” rejoined a clerk. “What a commission! Suppose they disagree—are

they competent?”

“That’s what I asked,” replied a clerk. “It’s said that one civilian

ought to go, one who has no military prejudices—a shoemaker, for

instance.”

“That’s right,” added an importer of shoes, “but it wouldn’t do to send

an Indian or a Chinaman, and the only Peninsular shoemaker demanded

such large fees—”

“But why do they have to make any investigations about footwear?”

inquired the elderly lady. “It isn’t for the Peninsular artillerymen.

The Indian soldiers can go barefoot, as they do in their towns.” [38]

“Exactly so, and the treasury would save more,” corroborated another

lady, a widow who was not satisfied with her pension.

“But you must remember,” remarked another in the group, a friend of the

officers on the commission, “that while it’s true they go barefoot in

the towns, it’s not the same as moving about under orders in the

service. They can’t choose the hour, nor the road, nor rest when they

wish. Remember, madam, that, with the noonday sun overhead and the

earth below baking like an oven, they have to march over sandy

stretches, where there are stones, the sun above and fire below,

bullets in front—”

“It’s only a question of getting used to it!”

“Like the donkey that got used to not eating! In our present campaign

the greater part of our losses have been due to wounds on the soles of

the feet. Remember the donkey, madam, remember the donkey!”

“But, my dear sir,” retorted the lady, “look how much money is wasted

on shoe-leather. There’s enough to pension many widows and orphans in

order to maintain our prestige. Don’t smile, for I’m not talking about

myself, and I have my pension, even though a very small one,

insignificant considering the services my husband rendered, but I’m

talking of others who are dragging out miserable lives! It’s not right

that after so much persuasion to come and so many hardships in crossing

the sea they should end here by dying of hunger. What you say about the

soldiers may be true, but the fact is that I’ve been in the country

more than three years, and I haven’t seen any soldier limping.”

“In that I agree with the lady,” said her neighbor. “Why issue them

shoes when they were born without them?”

“And why shirts?”

“And why trousers?”

“Just calculate what we should economize on soldiers clothed only in

their skins!” concluded he who was defending the army.

In another group the conversation was more heated. Ben-Zayb was talking

and declaiming, while Padre Camorra, as usual, was constantly

interrupting him. The friar-journalist, in spite of his respect for the

cowled gentry, was always at loggerheads with Padre Camorra, whom he

regarded as a silly half-friar, thus giving himself the appearance of

being independent and refuting the accusations of those who called him

Fray Ibañez. Padre Camorra liked his adversary, as the latter was the

only person who would take seriously what he styled his arguments. They

were discussing magnetism, spiritualism, magic, and the like. Their

words flew through the air like the knives and balls of jugglers,

tossed back and forth from one to the other.

That year great attention had been attracted in the Quiapo fair by a

head, wrongly called a sphinx, exhibited by Mr. Leeds, an American.

Glaring advertisements covered the walls of the houses, mysterious and

funereal, to excite the curiosity of the public. Neither Ben-Zayb nor

any of the padres had yet seen it; Juanito Pelaez was the only one who

had, and he was describing his wonderment to the party.

Ben-Zayb, as a journalist, looked for a natural explanation. Padre

Camorra talked of the devil, Padre Irene smiled, Padre Salvi remained

grave.

“But, Padre, the devil doesn’t need to come—we are sufficient to damn

ourselves—”

“It can’t be explained any other way.”

“If science—”

“Get out with science, puñales!”

“But, listen to me and I’ll convince you. It’s all a question of

optics. I haven’t yet seen the head nor do I know how it looks, but

this gentleman”—indicating Juanito Pelaez—“tells us that it does not

look like the talking heads that are usually exhibited. So be it! But

the principle is the same—it’s all a question of optics. Wait! A mirror

is placed thus, another mirror behind it, the image is reflected—I say,

it is purely a problem in physics.”

Taking down from the walls several mirrors, he arranged them, turned

them round and round, but, not getting the desired result, concluded:

“As I say, it’s nothing more or less than a question of optics.”

“But what do you want mirrors for, if Juanito tells us that the head is

inside a box placed on the table? I see in it spiritualism, because the

spiritualists always make use of tables, and I think that Padre Salvi,

as the ecclesiastical governor, ought to prohibit the exhibition.”

Padre Salvi remained silent, saying neither yes nor no.

“In order to learn if there are devils or mirrors inside it,” suggested

Simoun, “the best thing would be for you to go and see the famous

sphinx.”

The proposal was a good one, so it was accepted, although Padre Salvi

and Don Custodio showed some repugnance. They at a fair, to rub

shoulders with the public, to see sphinxes and talking heads! What

would the natives say? These might take them for mere men, endowed with

the same passions and weaknesses as others. But Ben-Zayb, with his

journalistic ingenuity, promised to request Mr. Leeds not to admit the

public while they were inside. They would be honoring him sufficiently

by the visit not to admit of his refusal, and besides he would not

charge any admission fee. To give a show of probability to this, he

concluded: “Because, remember, if I should expose the trick of the

mirrors to the public, it would ruin the poor American’s business.”

Ben-Zayb was a conscientious individual.

About a dozen set out, among them our acquaintances, Padres Salvi,

Camorra, and Irene, Don Custodio, Ben-Zayb, and Juanito Pelaez. Their

carriages set them down at the entrance to the Quiapo Plaza.