To Emilio Aguinaldo
Your
name means Christmas gift,
And
yes, you bestowed
Upon
your country
A
fine gift, your house,
A
generous patrimony,
Memorial
to courage,
Summons
to hope.
As
travelers approach,
Many-gabled
red roofs
Notably
rise into view,
Presided
over by a tower
Six
storeys high,
A
lookout embellished by
Five
quaintly pointed spires.
Gracing
the front esplanade,
Your
bronze statue—
Your
visage, undaunted,
Drawn
sword at the ready,
Riding
your stately mount,
Foreleg
upraised, purposefully.
Entering
the vestibule,
We
see behind glass displays
Your bleached
military uniform,
High-cut
boots, rusted rifles,
Glossy
buttons adorned
With
Masonic symbols,
And
the sword of the defeated
General
Ernesto Aguirre.
Ascending
the main stairway,
We
encounter at the landing
A
crossroads of sorts—
Left,
doorways, the first
To
a ladder-like stairway
To
the third-level Music Room,
Rising
to the Mirador
At
the top, a tower
Overlooking
sweeping views
Of Manila Bay
and its environs;
Further
down the hallway,
Your
children’s bedrooms;
End
of the hallway, a patio,
Galeria
de los Pecadores,
Your venue
for hatching plots
Against the
Spaniards—
Right, your
living room, commodious,
Harboring
the original window,
Now
converted into a balcony,
From
which you declared
Philippine
Independence,
Unfurling
the first flag
Of
the first Republic,
Marcha
Nacional
playing.
Mosaics,
triangles galore,
Wood
carvings in relief,
A
plethora of symbols
Adorn
walls and ceilings—
Eight-rayed,
a sun
Honors
the first eight provinces
To
revolt against Spain;
Inang Bayan
flourishes a banner;
Bearing
a letter, a dove flies
Towards
flags representing
The
League of Nations.
Appointments,
darkly varnished—
Cabinets
of costly hardwood,
Flashing
full-length mirrors;
Ornately
wrought clamshells, which,
Pulled
out from their niches,
Serve
handily as pot stands
Attached
to pilasters;
Grandiose,
an outsize dining table;
Desks
with sidewise compartments
To
store important documents,
Or
arms, for quick brandishing.
One
corner of your sala,
A
wooden panel swings open,
Disguised
as a hat rack,
Concealing
a corridor
That
exits into your bedroom.
Herein
positioned, an aparador
Built
by your carpenters
To
serve as your hiding place—
Dodging
unwanted visitors,
You
would sit inside, quiet.
A
trapdoor from your bedroom leads
Two
ways—one descends to
An
indoor swimming pool;
The
other, same level,
Is
a corridor to your kitchen.
This
hallway, Veterans Hall,
Is
where you would meet
Your
comrades-in-arms.
Their
portraits line the upper wall.
Below,
benches with backboards
Flip
open to reveal hollows for
More
documents, more arms.
Your
spacious kitchen houses
A
central table, its solid wood top
Hiding
another passageway
Descending
to an underground
Bomb
shelter cum tunnel leading to
Santa Maria
Magdalena church,
Five
hundred meters
Down
the main street.
Back
of your storied mansion,
Your
tomb, very large,
Monolithic,
a single block almost.
Round
the corner, in the garden,
Your
Packard limousine, gleaming
Inside
a house of polished glass.
Cleverly
constructed, wily—like yourself—
Your
entire second floor conceals
False
panels, secret passageways,
Hiding
places, an underground tunnel—
All
of which gives us pause.
Never
look a gift horse
In
the mouth, they say.
To
your consternation,
You
might discover jutting teeth,
Or
worse, dark jaws of betrayal.
Originally published in Cecile’s Writers (June 12, 2016)
