Forbidden Legacy

By Roger Garza

Intrigued by a persistent rumor of a hidden secret his grandfather Don Melchor Garza had kept and carried to his grave, the thirty-nine-year-old Beyong set out from Manila to his hometown of Tigaon in Camarines Sur, Philippines, to meet with his elderly Uncle Pamfilo Interino for a conversation regarding the matter. What he found out from his uncle's roadmap of stories, marred with twists and turns, was a network of women associated with Don Melchor in romantic consensual relationships; but nearly all the women carried an open association with the Spaniard, as Don Melchor was known, except for one woman who dwelt in anonymity and wore an elegant and gleaming bracelet of gold on her right wrist whom his uncle pinned with certainty as the bearer of the secret until another final twist in the colorful adventure saga of the Spaniard occurred unexpectedly to confirm, or negate, Beyong's discovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645598848

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Acknowledgment

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About the Author

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Forbidden Legacy

Roger I. Garza

ISBN 978-1-64559-882-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64559-883-1 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-64559-884-8 (Digital)

Copyright © 2019 Roger I. Garza

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

To my family.

Acknowledgment

At a park, a paper plane landed on my lap.

Mom, it's there! a kid's voice resonated.

A woman approached me. When she reached out for the toy in my hand, her bracelet jingled in my face. Meanwhile a gentleman with a mustache came by as well.

He's my man, the woman said.

When they left, I lay down on the grass with my hands as a pillow and my eyes shooting to the blue sky, and my thoughts were circling around the woman and her bracelet and around the man and his mustache.

To them, anonymous as they were, thank you for being the matchstick that sparked the writing of this tale.

Prologue

I have a story to tell. It happened at the

Turn of the twentieth century. It's about faith,

Adventure, romance, exploration, war,

And a well-kept and hidden secret.

Names, events, and places do not

Necessarily represent facts; rather

They were imagined to embellish an

Implausible yarn with a tinge of truth.

This is a fictionalized historical narrative.

A novel of adventure at sea and on a foreign

Land of a brave but reticent sailor-warrior

From Madrid, Spain, dubbed as the Spaniard.

Don Melchor Garza, the Spaniard, founded his clans

In two towns south of Luzon Island in the Philippines.

Beyong, the youngest of his grandchildren, ventured to

Unearth the secret hidden in the fourth of his six bracelets.

Beyong followed the Spaniard's trail of

Adventure vigorously through the sharp

Memory of one venerable old man, his

Very own frail Uncle Pamfilo Interino.

In the end, nature intervened in a twist of

Fate to corroborate and confirm the discovery

Of the much talked about secret of the long gone

Charitable man known, again, as the Spaniard.

If you're edgy to know the secret quickly, be

Admonished to refrain from peeking at the

Conclusion. Instead follow the track of the

Story as laid to relish corralling the mystery.

Whatever his secret, if you find it out, judge him not

Harshly. The chivalrous Spaniard had sinned, but he

Handed us bits of history in return. Enjoy this colorful

Story set in the early decades of the twentieth century.

Roger I. Garza

Chapter One

Know me by this name: Beyong.

I'm thirty-nine years old, a balikbayan (returnee)

From the city of Manila to Tigaon, a town south

Of Luzon in the Philippines, waiting for a ride.

December 5, 1981, Wednesday

Passengers like me were seated under the shade of an awning with a waterproof sheeting, known as trapal in Filipino vernacular, at the transport station in parada or centro, the town center of the municipality of Tigaon, waiting for the last trip of a jeepney to leave for barrio Tinawagan at 5:00 p.m. when a clean-shaven, promo-looking, smooth-talking gentleman took our attention by waving his hands in front of us and launching what appeared to be an educational, historical ad-lib. His voice resonated well, and his language fluency seemed to reveal, in my view, a fair educational attainment. His raspy tone corresponded with his old age, in his seventies, I supposed. I saw him drew out from the pocket of his gleaming white shirt a pair of reading glasses that he fitted onto his eyes. And his sight roamed around the crowd but not necessarily looking for someone, except his eyes lingered upon me for a while, probably wondering who I was. Then after introducing himself as Blas Oliveros, a former high school teacher, he began to speak methodically about an old clunker we were about to board.

Pointing at a vehicle with fading teal-and-red-color paints parked in a gray curb, not far from where he stood at the bus station's waiting area, the balding Blas proclaimed, with an air of authority, that, A jeepney like this was the surplus of the American military jeep known as the Willys MB, used in the Philippines and in other war zone countries in Asia and Europe during WWII.

I heard chuckles and saw couples grinning at each other, even shaking their heads. The interjections of gasp and snickering were becoming more audible, and the accompanying body language of disapproval, discernible from the audience, as a reaction to what seemed to be the beginning of an uncalled-for lecture from Blas in his opening remarks. Blas reacted morosely with the unexpected commotion. He bowed his head a little bit, peered at the crowd over the upper rim of his reading glasses, and waved his forefinger in front of his pursed lips to hush them. The crowd fell silent. Seeing compliance from the now seemingly tight-lipped and apparently docile waiting passengers, he proceeded to speak.

After the war in 1945, he declared, the jeepney was converted into an elaborate commercial vehicle by Filipino entrepreneurs, fitting it with a minibus frame and decorating it with colorful designs of mostly red, yellow, green, and chartreuse colors as well as aquamarine.

A slight noise forced Blas to pause from speaking in order for him to look around. And the crowd fell silent once more. A sense of respect for him was clearly palpable. And he continued his lecture.

Well, Blas continued, "this type of conveyor rapidly evolved into one of our country's prolific national means of transportation, alongside the train, car, bus, ferry, and aircraft. But as a consequence of the high demand for the service of the jeepney, which are clogging nearly every street in premier cities around the country, especially in Manila, the slow-moving kalesa—a two-wheeled horse-drawn carriage, a passenger and leisure conveyance in Spanish time, 1565–1898, especially during the Maria Clara era (nineteenth century), before cars, jeepneys, trucks appeared on the streets as well as at least four decades of American colonization, 1901–1946, and through two decades at peacetime after the end of the second horrific World War—was relegated to the sideline and its serviceability has since irreversibly diminished. Despite minimal demand for its service, however, the kalesa has remained popular to old people and tourists and eventually transcended into a state of a hallowed national relic from a vanishing Spanish cultural, social, and commercial era. The ubiquitous jeepney and the fading kalesa have since both fairly become two of our nation's most recognizable symbolic identity, and together, they add up as the most valuable poster materials to support a robust travel and tourism campaign, even if the kalesa bears the colonial stigma as a remnant of the Spanish's master and vassal governance. And on the other hand, the jeepney is associated with a forbidding reminder of American occupation of the Philippines by force that gave birth to Yankees' imperialism."

Blas gazed at the mesmerized crowd. Angelita stood up and sang the song Kalesa by Sylvia La Torre. More voices joined in the singing of the popular song about the iconic Philippine-style historic carriage known as the kalesa. Afterwards, a loud clapping from the waiting passengers echoed in parada and I saw Blas smiling broadly, probably thinking the crowd liked his discourse on a piece of national experience. But when he opened his mouth to continue his lecture, the crowd erupted into a bunch of howling protesters, No! Not again! Not again! Their voices literally shuttered the silence that Blas imposed upon them previously.

The rumbling of the passengers rolled like a wave of whispering wind and grew into an audible chatter of disinterest. Ah! they chorused.

I was certain the passengers knew Blas. They were even familiar with his trade of dealing them with ideas about anything that would come up in his mind while they were waiting to board the jeepney. The entertainer and educator in Blas were perceptible. But the adverse response of the listeners was clearly highlighted when one passenger cried out, Not this time! Not again!

They were farm laborers, who weren't interested in a discourse. Another man heckled, We cannot eat your jeepney!

All they care about was how to put the next meal on their plates and not a lecture. But Blas was undaunted. For some reason, he felt he must continue to talk while the time for departure had not yet come. Apparently speaking was his forte. He paused, visibly aware that he was losing the attention of the crowd. He stared at our faces grimly, not giving up a space to be challenged. However, he looked at me with curiosity in his face, smiling, as though he were thinking, Here's a new guy in town to show off who's me. Interestingly before he could vocalize anything in his thoughts, if that was the case, an elderly lady slipped her loud voice through the chattering, Why don't you tell us about the rumored secret of the old Spaniard instead?

And the crowd stood up in unison, clapping and roaring in approval. Yeah! yeah!

Then Blas retorted, seemingly flabbergasted about the enormous interest placed upon the rumored secret of the man well-known to them as the Spaniard, "Puro kayo tsismis!" he yelled. (You are all about gossip!) I don't know anything about it. Secret! Secret! Secret! He has been dead for more than fifty years. Nobody knows what he hid, I tell you that. And no matter your interest in it, I assure you this—no one will ever find out the truth about the secret! His forefinger was swinging back-and-forth again in front of his half-opened mouth as if in awe; his eyes, wide open, rimmed by white eyebrows, were surveying our faces until they lingered upon me awhile again, as if delivering a preempted message of caution to me, although I believed he had no inkling about the reason as to why I was back home in Tigaon after being away for two decades and a year. The mysterious power of telepathy must have worked on us at the time.

Suddenly he pointed a finger at a charming elderly lady in the crowd, who was wearing a white linen blouse in tandem with black trousers and a colorful light-brown bandana neatly set around her neck, and asked her unabashedly, For what purpose was the jeepney painted with an elaborate design?

It was clear Blas wanted to reset the situation by nudging the listeners back to his discourse. The lady breathed deeply, completely taken aback, and noticeably terrified at the surprise heavy-handed call. She placed her hands coyly in the middle of her chest, swallowed something in her mouth as anyone uptight would do, surveyed the people around her, even passing a meaningless glance at me as well from where I posted myself, at the side of the bench where she was sitting. Blas was waiting, pacing in front of the crowd impatiently, but the woman had remained silent, not moving an inch, just staring at the floor. She was seemingly touched negatively by the rudimentary nature of the question she was asked to answer.

Well, please stand up and be recognized! Blas couched the woman in a piercing, high-pitched tone as though he had a hold on her.

Jolted, the lady, her lithe and cleanly-dressed body exposed a refined and gentle woman in herself, obliged calmly, stood up, and quipped, Angelita. My name is Angelita Interino. She remained standing while staring at Blas.

I'm not asking for that, Blas responded vilely, although he said so. Anyway, what is your thought, Ms. Angelita?

To attract attention, sir.

Good guess. Of course, you could have also said, ‘For aesthetic effects.' But anyway, well done. Sit down, please!

The crowd agreed with the demure Angelita by joining their hands. And Blas smiled slyly for his trick. He knew he got back most of everyone's attention, and a spirited ambience had ensued again.

Thank you, thank you, young Angelita, Blas said in a mock politeness, apparently offsetting his unkindly regard of the woman earlier. Once again, he directed his focus on someone else, and this time, at a middle-age man seated next to Angelita, and he said, What's your take, young man?

By all means, the man wasn't young either. As for me, he looked in his late forties, but the loquacious Blas seemed to have everyone sealed in his weave of pampering. Some people have that gift of being an attention getter—commonly dubbed as the life of the party. And this guy, Blas, was, I sensed, one of them.

Like Angelita, the man that Blas had chosen was also carrying two baskets made of buri full of raw foods of fish, meat, bottles of ketchup, and other kitchen wares and medicinal items. It was well-known that people living as far as the foot of the mountain range of Isarog, or deep into the forest itself, usually buy food supplies in bulk to make sure the stock level of their provisions would last at least a week or two or until they come down to town again for replenishment.

They also trek down from the mountain during the season of Lent and other festivals, such as a town fiesta, Independence Day, Christmas Day, and New Year's Day.

I remember when I was about six years old, I spent a couple of months with the family of Uncle Martin Interino and his wife, the gentle beautiful and light-complexioned woman, Aunt Lauriana, nicknamed Lauring, in the forest of Mount Isarog.They were both abaca farmers rearing a family of six children; one of them was Angelita, whom I didn't recognize at the parada station after twenty-one years of absence. People changed dramatically in many ways in the course of time, especially in their outlook. I did. And so, too, with Angelita, whose brown hair glistened with streaks of white strands now. Her once-beautiful robust young body and erect posture had become but a shadow of the present tin face in a slender frame and slightly-drooping back. And I had definitely changed too, because nobody seemed to recognize me anymore, just as I didn't recognize anyone as well.

One time during a Good Friday, the couple, Martin and Lauriana, dressed up their children with elegant-looking but cheap clothes that their meager income could afford, and we trekked down from the mountain to the town of Tigaon to join the annual religious processions and other festivities. The family all stayed at the house of Aunt Coring for three days. That was the four-bedroom house on Gomez Street where I actually lived with Aunt Coring and her family: husband, Eustaquio Combo, and their six children, Clara, Salvacion, Vivian, Teresita, and the twin brothers, Vicente and Antonio. Aunt Coring, whose real name was Socorro, was the youngest of the siblings: my mother Ulpiana, Uncle Martin, and Uncle Pamfilo.

That house on Gomez Street was the remnant of what was once an elegant two-story four-bedroom edifice of my grandfather Cristobal Interino whose brother, Nicolas Interino, was then the mayor of Tigaon, 1911–1913. Don Melchor Garza had lived in that house periodically from 1911 until his death in 1933, the years for the timeline of this story. Don Melchor was the man referred to as the Spaniard by the woman who asked for his rumored secret to be revealed by Blas Oliveros during the raucous encounter in parada. Sometime during the 1941–1945 war, the big house was razed down by the Japanese soldiers when my father, Juan, was suspected as a guerrilla collaborator by donating foods, clothing, and other materials to the rebels to sustain the resistance. After that incident, my father, then old and sickly, had moved to his hometown of Calabanga where he died from a heart failure in 1947 when I was only six years old, leaving me—Beyong—an orphan.

On the third day after the Easter Sunday's celebrations, Uncle Martin and his family returned to the bosom of the abaca plantations in the forest of Mount Isarog without me. My stay with them was over. It was Aunt Coring's turn to take care of me. The schedule of my next vacation would be a year later, and this time, with Uncle Pamfilo and his family. When Uncle Pamfilo's first wife, Meting, died, he married an amiable, respectable, very humble, beautiful young woman named Pilaya. I was very lucky to have Pilaya as my wife, Uncle Pamfilo had once told me. She was young, so industrious, always on hand to help me. Uncle Pamfilo and his family also lived in the midst of trees, wild animals, untamed rivers, and lightless nights when the moon was not hovering in the sky, in the forest of the town of Sagnay (pronounced Sa'ngay). They have a big family: three boys, Manuel, Jelly, and Pamfilo Jr., and two girls, Marilyn and Teresita. Also living with them were Augosto and Emily, Uncle Pamfilo's children with his deceased wife, Meting. While I stay two months alternately each year with Uncle Martin's and Uncle Pamfilo's families, respectively, the rest of the year I was under the care of Aunt Coring who, I was told, resembled my deceased mother in many ways—beautifully attractive, lean figure, pleasant mannerism, good-hearted woman, and many more.

As an orphan, I moved residences when I was four to seven years old among the three siblings of my deceased mother, the affable most loving mother, Ulpiana Interino, a petite woman, with light complexion she got from her mother, Cristobal's wife, Sixta Obias. My mother, Ulpiana, died when I was three months old. I was born during the start of war on December 10, 1941, according to my Aunt Coring and as attested by the baptismal date in the registry of Santa Clara (St. Clare of Assisi) parish church in Tigaon. But because I registered my year of birth in school as 1942 in error, I decided to keep it to avoid conflict in my records.

Manufactured canned-milk and any other baby foods, along with cash, were scarce during the war. And so, Aunt Coring, my mother's youngest sister, searched for a possible wet nurse and found Segunda Velasco, who also had given birth about the time I was born, to breastfeed me along with her newly-born son who was my namesake, Rogelio. Segunda took me to live with her family on the fringes of Mount Isarog where they worked as farmers in an abaca plantation. Every week, my teenage sisters Lydia, Milagros, Lourdes, and my kid sister, Carmelina, and brother, Caruso, as well as Aunt Coring—the spokeswoman of the family—would bring needed provisions to Segunda for my needs and pay her for her weekly service.

After a year, when I was already eating solid foods like banana, camote, and cassava and ready to be redeemed from Segunda, a minor hitch of retrieving me from her had occurred. Aunt Coring did not have enough cash to pay off the redemption cost from Segunda. With my father, Juan, very ill and cautious to travel back to Tigaon from his home in Calabanga because of the ongoing war, Aunt Coring, after consultations with my still-minor siblings, led by Lydia, my benevolent and good-hearted older (actually the eldest of the siblings) sister, decided to barter with Segunda three hectares from my family's agricultural lands in exchange for my return. It happened. I was home with Aunt Coring. It was Segunda who nicknamed me Beyong to differ from his son's nickname, Rogel (pronounced Ro-hel), because we have the same baptismal name, Rogelio. Thank you, Segunda, from the bottom of my heart for helping me to survive at the most difficult and crucial time of my life—a motherless infant at the time of World War II.

On that Good Friday, with nearly everyone in the Garza-Interino family, we walked behind the carriage carrying the sculpted image of the Black Nazarene during the procession. The statue was owned by the siblings Maria and Gilberto Natividad and their well-off family in Tigaon. It was ornately dressed in a manner of a king and laid down inside a glass-covered cubicle, placed securely over an elaborately-decorated hand-drawn carriage, lighted with big glass-enclosed candles. More than a dozen men in dark-brown loose garments and wearing black headbands daintily pulled the carriage during the procession. The Black Nazarene was the highlight of the long parade of the images of saints, including that of St. Clare of Assisi, around the town of Tigaon in commemoration of Jesus's crucifixion and death during Lent.

On the third day, Easter Sunday, a few of us, including Uncle Martin and his family, in the household of Aunt Coring woke up at dawn and proceeded to the church. People with lighted candles had already gathered to watch the reenactment of the resurrection, called Salubong (to welcome), on the ground in front of the St. Clare Catholic Church. Aunt Coring held my hand as the spectators continued to arrive. The statue of the risen Christ, in gleaming white robe, was facing the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary in blue and pink velvety linen dress. Between them was a live little girl attired in angel's garb, waiting at the top of the high platform.

Aunt Coring said to me, "Look up there, the girl-angel, pointing to the girl. As the statues were being rolled toward each other underneath a high platform, the girl-angel, secured by a rope around her waist and chest, was lowered over the Virgin Mary's statue. After the recital of prayers and singing of hymns, the girl-angel picked up the mourning veil covering the head of the Blessed Virgin Mary as the sound of Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" reverberated from the faithfuls to symbolize the joyous event of Jesus Christ's resurrection. Then all of us followed behind the statues of Jesus Christ and the Blessed Virgin Mary in a short procession toward the church where a Mass to celebrate the Holy Eucharist was held.

Aunt Coring prepared a sumptuous breakfast at home after the Mass before Uncle Martin and his family left for the mountain. At breakfast,