Note: Some years ago one of Nick Joaquin's relatives solicited from me a memory of the man. The memory was to be 300 words long. Here is what I wrote then. I understand a book from that effort is published, but since I have not received any further communication from the solicitor, I have no idea if this piece is included in the book.
I first met Nick Joaquin in June of 1960. He was then 43 years old, section editor of the Philippines Free Press, and at the height of his literary powers. I was 15, a beginning writer, and had just started sophomore year at the University. Nick had published my first serious short story in his magazine earlier that week, but he changed the title and cut off a few words. I was absolutely embarrassed and incensed. So I sought him out at the old Free Press offices on Avenida Rizal. It was raining hard. Nick was not there when I arrived. He will be here later, said the guard, I will tell him you were looking for him.
A year or so later, at a symposium on new Philippine Literature sponsored by the PEN, Nick recounted his outrageously comic version of this meeting. He told them how the snotty whippersnapper, full of himself, had come to tear up the royalty check and throw the pieces at his face. He told them I had come to beat him up.
What really happened was that I went to the movies to pass away the waiting time, and by afternoon I was hungry, wet and not very angry anymore. The same guard delivered me up to Nick at his court at the Free Press canteen, where he presided over his subalterns, overwhelming them, and the blare of rain and traffic two floors below, with his voice. Seeing me with the guard, Nick pointed and asked, “O ikaw, anong gusto mo?” I said I wanted a beer. On the table with Nick that afternoon were idols Greg Brilliantes and Ding Nolledo, later dear friends also.
2
Through the years, my UP friends regularly crashed the Silliman Writers’ Workshop. One such year Nick was a guest lecturer. Wanting to steal a match on the other UP fellows Willie Sanchez and myself proceeded to Nick’s hotel, there to be told that Mr. Joaquin was some politician’s guest and was not expected until later. Unfazed Willie and I sat ourselves at the hotel restaurant, wrapped napkins about our necks and set out to drink – better yet to eat and drink – ourselves to the early death we deserved. We drank a bottle of good scotch chased by a lot of beer, feasted on steaks, lobsters, oysters. We puked ourselves empty a few times, then refilled ourselves over again, dimly beginning to realize that Nick may not return to the hotel in time to rescue us. Finally the beleaguered hotel manager told us to settle our bill as it was closing time.
“Charge it to Mr. Joaquin’s room, please.”
“Sorry we cannot do that without Mr. Joaquin’s express consent.”
The sobering prospect of jail suddenly presented itself. Clutching at straws, “We are Mr. Joaquin’s children,” we declared.
“I happen to know Mr. Joaquin”, he announced triumphantly. “I know Mr. Joaquin is a bachelor.”
Which was when Nick, in perfect time, came singing something god-awful through the door.
3
The last time I saw Nick was on the evening of Recah Trinidad’s birthday party that year he died. Actually it was Nick’s birthday too, as their anniversaries were a day apart, and that was how we celebrated the two of them through the long decades. In those decades Nick had given generously of his friendship, honoring us for whatever little thing we did, defending us in our sloth and our many shortcomings. From the beginning he introduced us to his friends – John Siler, Elena Roco, Jose Garcia Villa – and to his family – his doting sisters, his brothers, specially Ping whose piano we enjoyed at the Colombian. He befriended our friends and our families in turn. We had many crazy adventures together, some too dangerous or too scandalous still to be told. After the operation he stopped smoking his Unions, and his sober time seemed to shorten: six beers, four beers, finally two. That night at Recah’s I was wearing khaki shorts and Nick said “Those are exactly the pants I wore during the war,” and laughed. At his urging we sang Estrellita one last time. Two beers and we embraced in goodbye.
I did not go to his wake or burial. I felt something of him – grim, fierce, absolutely alone - was hostaged there, among enemies, in the pantheon. When forced to accept the award, he had stood broken at that center stage, eyes cast down, arms spread in surrender, palms open as if he waited to be sacrificed. No, never again. After all Willie Sanchez and I had already given him the river burial he deserved. One night we kidnapped Nick, quite drunk, to San Mateo below the dam, where Willie and I had a dugout river canoe. We intended to place him on the dugout, then let the Marikina bear him to where it met his Pasig wending its forlorn way to the sea and the sky – that starlit riverine path traveled by our holy poets from Balagtas to Rizal and Recah Trinidad. But somewhere above the river Nick Joaquin woke up screaming and threw Willie and me out of the cab.
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| Long live! |
By Erwin Castillo
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