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  “I think we should—”

  “Yeah,” Sadie says, putting the car into reverse. “But there’s no way over the median to the southbound lanes. Should I just turn around on this lane?”

  “It’s too hard to see in this rain. What if there’s an oncoming truck or something without headlights? Try the underpass to the southbound lanes.” I open my window and stick my head out. Huge raindrops smack my face. The underpass leads beneath the bridge, a concrete levee keeps the water out. “It doesn’t look flooded. Yet.”

  We skirt around the other hemmed-in vehicles. Some are beginning to maneuver indecisively. A few are backing up all the way, hazard lights flashing. Others are U-turning to risk driving into oncoming traffic. It’s like bumper cars before the first bump. A bus makes the bridge crossing, slowing beside the jeepney to rescue the two men. Its wake sends a wave against the levee protecting the underpass. Some water splatters over.

  “I don’t know, Miguel. It’s not flooded only because of that cement thingy. I don’t want to get stuck in there.”

  “Just zoom it. If it’s flooded we can back out quickly.”

  Sadie drives down and through the underpass, below the bridge, and out the other end. We’re through. “Plato’s cave,” I say, trying for levity. Sadie doesn’t reply. The road inclines to the current level of the river. Over the embankment on our right I see the surface of the water. I could open my window and dip my hand in it.

  “Holy shit,” Sadie says, switching off her left signal light and nudging me to look. “I don’t think we can make that,” she says. True enough, the turnoff to the southbound lanes of Edsa is flooded. We can’t get back onto the highway.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Just go straight. This road becomes J. P. Rizal, which follows the river from a height and ends up on Makati Avenue. My hotel is just off it. We can stay there.”

  Sadie drives on and the road rises slightly. We’re in the clear. Sadie gives a sigh of relief and turns on the radio. “Fuck,” she says, “I need to relax. That was scary.” She puts it onto the music station.

  “I think we should listen to the news,” I say. “Is that okay?”

  Sadie waves her hand dismissively.

  I scan for Veritas or Bombo. An excited voice exclaims: “—ots were fired and a group led by Reverend Martin has taken control of the house, overpowering the police, in an attempt to free Wigberto Lakandula . . .”

  The road continues. I turn around to look at the river. Its shimmering darkness is lighter against the shadowy embankments. The bridge is lit with the occasional headlights of crossing buses and trucks. The black shapes of buildings line the river. Several miles beyond are lights of a factory. Probably the Philippines First Corporation’s munitions factory. It must have a generator for security, especially because of the trouble with the World Wardens.

  Sadie’s phone goes poo-tee-weet. She passes it to me because she’s driving. I read the screen. “Who’s Maqy?”

  “My mom’s other sister. Can you read it out?”

  The text message says: Avoid protests. Bansamoro warns of armed bandits and antigovernment rioters. Violent factions could start bloodshed.

  “I wish we could go,” I say.

  “Really? It wouldn’t make a difference.”

  The road turns toward Makati. Unlit houses loom on either side, blocking our view of the river. Their heavy iron bars and tall metal gates do make me feel like we’re driving through a ghost town. We continue on until the road disappears beneath a flooded portion.

  “. . . additional troops have been dispatched to stop the crowd which has, it is reported, begun to move from the Changco house on Zacateros down Claro M. Recto, in the direction of Malacañang Palace . . .”

  Thunder rolls. The flooded area is like a maelstrom in the barrage of wind and rain. Sadie stops the car at the water’s edge and buries her face in her hands.

  “Sadie. It’s okay. This has nothing to do with the river. It’s only collecting between the walls of the properties. It’s shallow. See how it’s moving? If you constantly rev the engine, the water won’t get in. We’ll get through. Easy-peasy. But you have to keep the air pushing out of the exhaust so water can’t—”

  “Let’s just wait on the high ground we just passed.”

  “. . . earlier reports of looting have been discredited as misinformation. The crowds so far have been peacef—”

  “Wait out here? It’s the middle of nowhere. Sadie, come on. This flood can only get deeper.”

  “It’s okay. I brought my gun. It’s under your seat.”

  “Sadie, I’m positive we can make it. Just don’t hesitate.”

  “Fine.” She puts the car in gear and revs the engine. We enter the water. It sloshes in the wheel wells and against the underchassis. “I don’t know . . . ,” she says.

  “Come on, Sadie. Keep going.”

  *

  Back at their camp, Salvador helped drag the limping Ka Arsenio into the decrepit building that had once been a Spanish outpost. The place was deserted, but their comrades’ rice was boiling in the pot on the fire. The two men went to the window and spotted figures approaching.

  “Go,” Ka Arsenio said to Salvador. “Escape out the back.” Salvador looked at his friend. As he recalled in his memoir: “I knew he wouldn’t be convinced to do otherwise than stay. Or perhaps that is a fiction I’ve created to exonerate myself.” Salvador handed his rifle to Ka Arsenio. Then he performed the Flying Panther leap, head-first through the open rear window. He sprinted to the tree line, “fleeing the new chorus of the gunshots I should have faced with my comrade.”

  —from the biography in progress, Crispin Salvador:

  Eight Lives Lived, by Miguel Syjuco

  *

  Across the flood and in the distance, lights of cars pass on Makati Avenue. “Come on, you can make it,” I say. A section of the road ahead runs along the river, but I don’t tell her. It has a concrete embankment anyway.

  “. . . crowds have also massed at Plaza Miranda, my compatriots, where an impromptu rally is under way . . .”

  “Hey, if we stall,” I say, trying to lighten the mood again, “you’ll have to save me. I can’t swim.”

  “Quit fucking around.”

  “Sorry.”

  We push through the water, slowly but steadily. It gurgles beneath us.

  “. . . Among the multitude are prominent national and local leaders includi—”

  “Aw shit, fuck, shit,” Sadie says. “Fuck it.” She turns the wheel violently, to make a two-point turn. “We’ll just . . .”—she shifts into reverse—“wait it . . .”—the engine sputters—“out.” The car lurches, then dies.

  We sit in silence. Sadie tries to start the engine. It doesn’t turn over. She tries again. Again. She should just quit it already. Tries again.

  “Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck,” she says. She hits the steering wheel. “What are we going to do?”

  I try to stay calm. “Listen. Do you have a driver at home? You do? Okay. Call his cell and have him come with your four-by-four. He can tow us out, or at least get us to safety while we leave the car here.”

  Sadie rings. She bites her lip. Finally, her driver answers. Sadie’s voice is frightened and bossy. She tells him where we are.

  “Coolness,” she says. “He was just sleeping. He’s on his way.” She throws the phone over her shoulder onto the rear seat. Visibly relieved, she hugs me. “If there’s one thing the masses are, it’s reliable.” She giggles nervously. Her laugh is charming. It sounds like sneakers squeaking on a basketball court.

  We climb over to the back and curl up together. Her hair has the scent of Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific shampoo. My yayas used to use that on us when we were kids. I tell Sadie: “I’d have thought you use some fancy shampoo.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m just a simple kind of girl.”

  I bury my face in her hair. I whisper in her ear: “Smells like my childhood.”

  “I hope it was a good childhood.�
��

  “Sure it was.”

  “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  Dark shapes float past our windows. In the quiet of our conversation, the rain becomes louder.

  “When we first met, you told me that you didn’t have family here. Then at dinner, you talked with my folks about your grandparents. Why’d you lie to me?”

  “It was too complicated.”

  “It sucks being lied to.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Something looms far ahead. When I look, it’s just darkness. “Miguel, you can tell me anything. I won’t judge.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  Something knocks on the front of the car. Tops of trees peek over the walls of nearby properties. They look like people spying.

  “Can I ask you another question?”

  “Of course.”

  “What happens when you find Dulcinea?”

  “I find the missing manuscript.”

  “That’s your only reason?”

  “Yeah.”

  The knocking persists. The trees swoon. The rain on the roof is like a box of bones being shaken.

  “Then I think you should leave her alone.”

  “Why?”

  “If she wanted to have anything to do with her dad, she would have.”

  “It’s just not that simple.”

  Something scrapes on the right fender, like someone trying to come in. A wooden banister floats alongside.

  “Are you going to be seeing your grandparents?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s better that way.”

  “It’s just that simple, huh?” Sadie brushes my bangs from my face. “Sorry,” she says. She kisses my forehead. “Are they the reason you left Manila?”

  “No.”

  “Why’d you go?”

  Something thuds on the bumper. A San Miguel Beer icebox bobs by. Lightning shatters the dark sky. We wait for thunder. None comes.

  “I just don’t like who I become here.”

  The dark mass ahead shifts, as if the night itself is stepping closer. “Is that my truck? He better not make us wade. We’ll get hepatitis or something.”

  “It’s only something in the water.”

  Rain crashes harder. I raise my voice to be heard.

  “You know,” I say, “it’s not like I don’t want to come back and contribute. It just feels so . . . I don’t know.”

  “Hopeless? Do like everyone else. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t want to do that, either.”

  “Then just kiss me.”

  I kiss her.

  “Do you think I’ll do okay in New York?”

  “You’d do great.”

  “I won’t be shirking my responsibilities? Just leaving, I mean.”

  “No.” I look at Sadie closely. “I don’t know.” I study her perfect face. Her perfect nose. Her bottom teeth are a little crooked, just to remind me she’s real.

  “You’re still going to go look for Dulcinea, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  *

  BANG! Our car is rocked by an explosion. Sadie and I whip around. My God. Something is . . . The PhilFirst factory is aflame. Fire streaks in all directions. First one, then another, then a lot of fireworks, actual fireworks, shoot into the sky. Green. Blue. Yellow. Popping. Whistling. Hissing. Then they go off simultaneously. Then they take off in spurts. A huge orange flower wilts in the rain. A star studded with pearlescent bursts and a blue cluster in its middle lights the nearby billboard of Vita Nova. A crimson spiral winds sideways into the sign that says JESUS ALONE SAVES, shattering its neon letters in a deluge of glass. Streakers scream vertically one after the other, whizzing high until they burst into balls of sparkles like motes of white cinders. More, then more, rockets fly out. One of the factory buildings becomes a ball of fire—one second there, one second consumed, one second gone. Its incandescent structure stumbles like a skeleton into the water. Flames spider across the river’s surface like gasoline alight, tufts of orange and yellow creeping slowly as they spread, rising steadily across the polluted water. The river is ablaze. The water burns, smells like singed hair, sulfur, scorching sugar. The low cloud ceiling, its soft rolls, seem to smolder from the chemical sun below it. Even the distant horizon is stained red with this false dawn.

  *

  “I’m not an addict! What are you doing?’ Dulcé yelled, pushing their arms off her. “Please, why are you doing this?”

  She looked at her mother and stepdad, imploring them with her eyes. Mom was crying, Dad was shaking his head. The doctor and the male nurse forced Dulcé’s arms through the straitjacket, then buckled her tight. She couldn’t move.

  “But it’s all true!” Dulcé said. Mom held the diary in her hand.

  “Dulcé, dear Dulcé. Just admit it. You made up these stories.”

  Dad knelt down in front of Dulcé and put his arms on her shoulders. “Babygirl, you’re sick. These men are going to take you to the hospital to cure you.”

  “You’re not even my real father,” Dulcé said, knowing that those were the worst words she could say. But she was so angry with him for allowing this.

  Dad didn’t bat an eyelash. “You’re my babygirl and I want you to get better.”

  Mom waved the diary and pleaded: “Dulcé, please, just say those are your fantasy stories. Just say you don’t believe them.”

  Dulcé didn’t know what to say. If she said what she wanted to, they would never believe it. If she said what they wanted her to, she’d never be able to believe in herself again. But maybe she could prove it to them!

  She closed her eyes real tight and tried to make herself lighter than air. Just believe, she thought. Just believe.

  For a second she felt herself lifting up. Her feet left the ground.

  I’m doing it! I’m doing it!

  But it was only the doctor and the nurse carrying her, lifting her to the bed in the back of the ambulance.

  —from Ay Naku!, Book Three of Crispin Salvador’s Kaputol trilogy

  *

  Sadie jumps to the front seat and turns on the radio. A woman’s voice sings: “There’s a light of hope, when you light a Hope.”

  “Is it safe,” she asks, “to use the car battery?”

  I don’t reply. I’m transfixed by the scene behind us. The river courses with fire. Hell must look like this. “Miguel,” Sadie says. I snap out of it.

  “—everend Martin addressed the crowd just moments ago before we went to station break,” says the commentator. “We now come back to you, live. Crowds are continuing to swarm over Jones and MacArthur bridges to join the rallies, while riot police have formed a barricade at the corner of Recto and Legarda, to prevent a march on the Presidential Palace. I spoke earlier on the telephone with Senator Bansamoro, who said the scene is extremely tense. One thrown stone, one gunshot could set it all off. Our reporter Danjen Adapon is on the scene. Hello Dan?! Can you hear me?”

  Poo-tee-weet.

  “Read it,” Sadie says. The message says: Wen u smile the world smiles wid u. When ur down ppl will rally bhind u. But wen u fart u r alone coz ppl will never stand by u! Xcpt 4 JESUS! He died 4 our sins!

  I hand back her phone. “Sadie, let’s check the radio for . . .” But she’s already busy dialing her driver’s number.

  “Fuck!” she says. “The battery just died!”

  “Shit. I left mine in the hotel.”

  “Loud and clear, Rolly. Loud and clear. The scene here is difficult to describe. I’m speaking to you from the roof of the Chow King restaurant on C. M. Recto. I would say, uh, the crowd numbers as many as, uh, two hundred thousand. Maybe even five hundred thousand. It is an ocean of people. Reports do indicate that various factions have been called here to oppose each other, but from what I see, this crowd has come together peaceably. Most have been here for hours, waiting
to see what their leaders will do. More arrive every minute. People are sharing umbrellas and food, many are singing songs. The atmosphere is like a carniva—Uh . . . the . . . Wait. Oh no. There is a confrontation between Reverend Martin and Wigberto Lakandula. They are exchanging words on a stage erected on the back of a truck. Oh my golly, Reverend Martin has pushed Lakandula to the floor! Um, Lakandula is refusing to fight. He is now being led away by some supporters. I recognize the elderly Congressman Respeto Reyes. He is holding Lakandula’s hand. Uh, just one minute, please, Rolly.” The reporter converses with someone off mic, their voices unintelligible and hurried. “Uh, Rolly, I now understand that Lakandula is leading his followers quietly away. Oh no, there seems to be trouble now. Someone at the other end of the crowd has destroyed a shop window. There seems to be a large group heading toward Makati. A car, no, a taxi has been turned over. They’re throwing stones at policemen. At windows with lights in nearby buildings. Oh my golly, they are throwing stones at us . . .”

  *

  Even as he listens, our fiery protagonist wonders if tonight is the revolution Crispin wanted for so long. He regrets not having joined the crowds.

  He thinks of one option for a life. An old man soft and bent over his typewriter while the world changes without him. An old man striking keys in acts of violence without valor. An old man imagining into being a young man’s moment, like now. A stormy night beyond closed windows. The threat of mortality far, far away. Decisions to be avoided and never paid for.

  *

  The river surges with the sudden warmth. The Pasig’s waters move toward us, no longer possessing the flat, defeated surface of its former self. The flood in which our car sits flows backward, opposite the river’s current. There must be a break or overflow up ahead. The water rises, its level perceptible on the disappearing hood of the car. Bright flashes continue from the factory, slathering everything with color: the street is red, then black, then green, then yellow, then orange, then black, then orange. A chair floats nearer, thuds on the bumper, passes to our left. Sadie disconnects and reconnects her cell-phone battery. “Power!” she exclaims. She dials. “Shit,” she says, “answer the phone. Shit, answer, please answer, you motherfucker. Please. Aw fuck. Battery died. What do we do?”