Wu sits back among the crates as his assistant pores over a page of sums, clacking an abacus. The warehouse smells of sandalwood and machine oil. Wu speaks English with Diosdado and never ceases smiling.
“You are an emissary.”
“I assure you that the money is secure,” Diosdado explains. “Here in a bank in the city.”
“We have all heard of your General’s settlement with the Spanish crown.” Wu slumps with his hands folded on his stomach, a round man dressed in the Western style, with a white fedora tilted back on his head. His assistant wears a blue cotton work tunic and makes small noises as he calculates.
“We can make a purchase, then?”
Wu shows Diosdado the palms of his hands. “The merchandise you seek is unavailable.”
“I was told that if anyone in Hongkong could accommodate us—”
“It would be I, yes. But our new administrators, in their wisdom, have forbidden trade in weapons.”
It is always hard to tell with them, the Chinese, what is bargaining and what is fact.
“Many things are forbidden in the Crown Colony,” says Diosdado blandly, “and yet you are known to deal in them.” Wu is alleged to be head of the Three Harmonies Society and an exporter of illegal coolies from Macao. He continues to smile.
“This city is alive with rumor. Weapons, however, are of a great concern to the British government. May I inquire what purpose you might have in acquiring so many of them?”
“For our people,” says Diosdado. “To fight the Spanish.”
“But the terms of your Treaty—”
“Have been violated repeatedly.”
Wu sighs and shakes his head. “Politics. Irresolvable conflicts. I am so very content to remain outside of their sphere.”
“If you were to quote me a price—”
“The Germans in Shandong are growing wary of our—our more excitable citizens,” says Wu, leaning forward to make his point. “And the British do not wish to upset the Germans—”
“We are not going to give weapons to the Boxers.”
“Be that as it may, there are none here to be purchased.”
Wu turns and tells the assistant, in Cantonese, that Diosdado wants to buy guns for the naked savages back home, as if they could be taught to use them. The assistant has a coughing laugh that rattles his abacus. Diosdado remains expressionless.
“Do you know of anybody who might have something we could buy?”
“If you are going to fight the Spanish,” says Wu, “surely there will be wounded. I can offer you an excellent deal on medicinal herbs—”
“I’m not authorized to buy opium.” Diosdado stands to leave. “Thank you for your time.” At least this one did not promise like the Japanese, promise and never deliver. Only Dr. Sun, the Chinese revolutionist, actually sent them weapons, but the boat foundered in a typhoon and all was lost.
“So very sorry to disappoint you,” smiles Wu from his throne of crates.
“We carry one foreign power on our back,” Diosdado says in Cantonese as he bows goodbye, “while China opens her legs for a dozen.”
The streets west of Central Market are packed with the usual swarm of humanity, the only relief from the noisy mass of them an occasional unobstructed glimpse up to the slope of Victoria Peak, where the humanity thins out and the British and the wealthiest of the Chinese merchant kings have built their palaces. It is green up there, with unfouled air to breathe, quiet. Diosdado’s rickshaw boy grunts as he trots up a slight incline, weaving them through vegetable stalls and charm-sellers, past an oversized British official sitting pinkly on a pallet borne by four sweating lackeys hustling in the opposite direction. A pair of carriages rattle by, full of wealthy Chinese heading to the Happy Valley racecourse, shouting out joyously as they go.
A city built on trade, thinks Diosdado, with the soul of a whore.
Junta activities in Hongkong emanate from the two houses on Morrison Hill Road in Wanchai. Don Felipe Agoncillo lives in the smaller one with his family and whoever spills over from the other. Diosdado calls to the boy when they reach the house, steps down, and reluctantly parts with a few coins. There is, of course, no more money from Don Nicasio, and the Junta can only spare a tiny stipend for its exiled patriots. But it wouldn’t do to arrive soaked in perspiration from the climb, not with the General back from Singapore.
It is Señora Agoncillo herself who answers the door, beautiful and gracious.
“Our young linguist,” she says, smiling and stepping back to allow him passage. “You must come out of the heat.”
He is ushered to the study, where members of the Junta and a few of the exiled government stand around a table, frowning over a drawing.
“I understand why the sun has a face,” says one, “but shouldn’t it be smiling?”
“In a Masonic triangle—”
“Just a triangle—”
“All triangles are Masonic. You can’t avoid the association.”
“The three points of the triangle represent Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity.”
“The French—”
“The French have nothing to do with us.”
“I thought the three stars—”
“They represent Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao—”
“Wonderful. Mindanao. Why not a half-moon and a scimitar?”
“The moros are Filipinos, whatever their beliefs.”
“And the rays emanating—”
“Eight rays, eight provinces that rose in ’96—”
“You make eight?”
“Batangas, Bulacan, Cavite, Laguna, Manila, Nueva Ecija, Pampanga, and Tarlac.”
“You allow a more generous definition of revolt than I.”
“Blue and red, like the flag of independent Cuba.”
“You’re forgetting the white triangle.”
“Red, white, and blue—”
“Symbolic,” says the slender, large-eyed man who has been sitting quietly at the head of the table, “of our hopeful friendship with the United States.” He smiles shyly. “Or at least that’s what I told their Consul in Singapore.”
The men laugh. Diosdado has never seen the General in person before. He seems too slender, too gentle a man to be the strongman of Cavite, who outfought and then outfoxed the Spanish cazadores, who had the grit to order the execution of the Bonifacios and risk tearing the movement apart.
“He suggested that we have a new banner, to rally the people.”
The voice is soft, seemingly without irony. He didn’t order the executions, Diosdado corrects himself, he merely allowed them to happen.
“Do you trust them?” asks Mascardo.
“The hulls of their Great White Fleet have been painted gray for battle and they have been asked by the British, in the interests of neutrality, to leave the harbor. We can only hope that they are trustworthy.” The General turns and looks directly at Diosdado. “And what do you think, Argus?” He indicates the drawing. “About my design?”
The men of the Junta all turn toward Diosdado. He is speechless at first, that the General would recognize him, would know his code name, would ask his opinion.
“We are a complex nation,” he answers in Tagalog. “We deserve a complex flag.”
The General laughs. “You went to see the Hong man?”
Diosdado nods. “Not a single rifle.”
Malvar, who sent him on the mission, scowls, but the General’s expression does not alter.
“No matter,” he says. “The Americans have promised to sell us as many as we need.”
“When?” asks Riego de Dios.
“We are to wait here for their summons,” says the General.
“Our people are already fighting in the Ilocos.”
“There is little else to entertain oneself with in the Ilocos,” says Alejan-drino, and the men laugh again.
The General turns back to Diosdado. “We will be waiting here for the summons,” he says, “but you, young man, are to go immediately to Manila.”
Diosdado takes a deep breath, trying to appear unfazed by the order. Manila. He has been condemned there as a traitor, drawings of him, poorly rendered, circulated by the guardia. He thought he might never see the city again.
“And what is my mission?”
The General smiles. “To wait for our American brothers,” he says, “and embrace them when they step ashore.”