Gould leaned back against the bar. “Oh, about two minutes.”
“What the captain meant to say,” interrupted Head, “is that he just arrived here on Clark. I’ve been here two years and have two left.”
“Your family is with you?” asked Charlie.
“Locked up safe and tight up on Thirty-First Place.” At Charlie’s puzzled look, Head explained, “You guys must be brand-new, too. That’s on-base officer’s housing. Since you’re new, you’ll be staying off-base at one of the American compounds. And if you’re bachelors, you’ll probably be there your entire tour. That’s one nice thing about coming to Clark without a family — you’ll rotate back to the States faster.”
At a nudge, Bruce looked up. Catman and Robin had crowded in next to him.
The beers arrived; the first two went to the helicopter pilots.
Bruce drew on his, finishing half the bottle. He smacked his lips and pointed to the two chopper pilots. “Gentlemen, meet Richard Head and Bob Gould — Rotorheads, Esquire.”
“Well, I’ll crap a brick. Howdy, guys. I’m Catman.”
“Robin.”
The four fighter jocks surrounded the chopper pilots, buying them drinks, laughing at their jokes, and in general doing everything they could to make them feel welcome. They all knew that their lives might one day depend on the helicopters that these men flew.
Cervante stood across the street from the Skyline Hotel and pulled on his cigarette. He watched a long van drive up to the front and stop. Men and women spilled out of the van, laughing, all dressed in uniforms. He tensed when he first spotted the people, but as they came into view he recognized the uniforms of commercial airline employees.
The flight crew was spending the night in the hotel while their plane was serviced. The planes were contract carriers, on lease by the United States government to ferry the military personnel from the States to the P.I. The military owned vast fleets of its own airplanes, the giant C-5s and smaller C-17s that dotted the tarmac on Clark, yet in Cervante’s eyes the Americans flaunted their superiority, thinking that their people were too good to be transported on those war machines. It was just another itch that made the entire American presence unbearable.
A human sea washed around Cervante as he waited for Pompano Sicat. It was getting dark, and in a few moments he would be unable to distinguish one face from another. Most of the Filipino men were dressed in identical white shirts and dark pants. In their school days, the school’s uniform-of-the-day was the unchanging white on black.
Cervante had dressed the same way, in order to blend into the crowd. His avant-garde friends at the University of the Philippines would be dumbfounded if they saw him now. But then again, they’d be amazed that anyone would actually do something and take action against the Americans; his friends were long on talk, but pretty damned short on changing things.
He threw down his cigarette, then glanced at his watch. Pompano was late. Not by much, but it still irritated Cervante. Kawnlo would never put up with this: time was much too valuable.
Finally a jeepney pulled up to the curve. A crowd of people rushed off the vehicle.
Cervante saw Pompano slowly step down from the corrugated metal floor onto the pavement. The man looked around, spotted Cervante and started walking down the street. Cervante stepped in behind him, then moved abreast of him. People pushed past them, but they were close enough to speak without being overheard. Pompano spoke first.
“So, my friend. What is it that you bring?”
“A plan.” Cervante touched Pompano’s arm, pointing to a dark street plunging away from the main avenue. When they turned the corner they found themselves walking along a row of quiet houses. The city’s roar was still discernible in the background, but the abodes seemed like a quiet oasis amid the fast-paced downtown life. There were many such pockets scattered throughout Angeles, further enforcing Cervante’s perception that the city was a two-dimensional façade, set up mostly for the benefit of the Americans. It lacked the depth, the rich history of other Filipino cities.
They walked next to walls covered with broken glass to prevent burglars and vandals from entering. Pompano reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Cervante.
Cervante noticed the official blue-seal emblem that covered a portion of the top of the pack. He shook his head and pulled out one of his own.
“Cervante, you university types take this much too seriously. You want to cut yourself completely off from the Americans? Bah, it will never happen. Everyone is in bed with everyone else, no matter how well you clean house.”
“Supporting their black market only builds up the American presence. The claws are reaching deeper every day, making sure the Americans never leave the P. I. again.”
Pompano nodded. “That may be true, my friend. Yes, I pay twice as much for these American cigarettes as that fine Filipino brand you are smoking; and yes, the American housewife who brings me a hundred cartons she received from her friends is spending my money on their base, and not in the Angeles economy.” He blew a deep breath of smoke out. “But, ah! These cigarettes are from God’s own garden.” He crossed himself as he spoke. “Yes, I want to hasten the Americans out, but if I do not sell our countrymen these Blue Seals, then someone else will.”
Cervante scowled. “I did not come to debate how much better those American cigarettes are than ours. It does not matter. Our cigarettes could taste like caribou shit—”
“And they do.”
“But the point is,” said Cervante, carefully ignoring Pompano’s interruption, “every American item we buy, we sell, we push, or we use is dividing our country and forcing us farther and farther away from complete independence. We almost had it the first time the Americans left. But now, the people are frightened to imagine having no Americans to protect them against China, and the addiction grows worse every day.”
Pompano stopped and puffed for a minute. He spoke quietly. “My friend, you are missing my point. I despise the Americans as much as you.” He narrowed his eyes at Cervante. “And probably even more so, for what they did to me, did to my family. That I can never forgive. But I must face reality. Not as an idealistic student such as yourself, but as a businessman. As a father who must care for his daughter.”
“Yolanda is old enough to take care of herself—”
“Leave Yolanda out of this!” The rebuke came swiftly, strongly. Cervante took an involuntary step backward at the harsh tone. Pompano continued, but lightly.
“The reality I must face is greater than a simple black-and-white decision: if a young person comes into my sari-sari store, I do not question him about buying illegal American cigarettes. For if I do, then he will go to another store, which will probably not only sell him the cigarettes, but set him up with a prostitute as well. It is survival, and an economic necessity. I cannot boycott American goods, just as I cannot boycott Chinese goods.” Pompano spit at the word. “I believe in a separate P.I., but there is reality to deal with.”
Cervante felt himself warming to the debate, but knew that he could not persuade the old man with words. There was a limit to what the tongue could accomplish, and Cervante felt that the line was close. But he had to say one last thing.
“You must remember, Pompano. This is a war we are fighting. Our victories are not measured in battles won. Our measure of success is the day-to-day gain that we Filipinos get from seeing the American presence diminish. That is what we must talk about.”
Cervante took Pompano gently by the elbow and led him down the dark street.