The Winners ’61
By Quijano de Manila
November 1961–VICTORY, the poll victors found out after the polls, is chiefly an overpowering, devouring drowsiness.
Happy eyes glaze over, the eyelids droop; ecstatic smiles freeze, the head nods. Hands held out to congratulators grope and falter; and the words of joy fatten into a yawn.
Making the rounds of victors’ houses three days after the polls, one found doorbells and telephones ringing in vain, crowds of visitors collecting and dispersing unreceived, blue telegrams piling up on doorside tables, while the winners hungrily slept, slept, slept.
Not applause, nor congratulations, nor the latest poll returns widening the margin of victory, could be sweeter than bed and darkness, pillow and sheet.
Maria Kalaw Katigbak stayed home only long enough to make sure she was among the select senatorial eight, then reportedly fled to Lipa—“to get some sleep.” Her husband, an immense man, winces when congratulated on his victory, is resigned to being introduced as “the senator’s husband.”
Soc Rodrigo’s wife Medy says she’s glad it’s all over: “Now we can get some sleep.”
Dragged up from bed in the late afternoon, her eyes still swollen from drowse, Edith Pelaez groaned: “I haven’t had a good sleep in a long time!” Manny Pelaez came home from Mindanao three days after the polls, stayed just to bathe and change clothes, then rushed off again. About all his wife can remember him saying (she was too sleepy to ask about Mindanao) was that he was sleepy too.
Like a somnambulist was Manuel Manahan’s wife Connie, barely awake as she moved around her workshop, finally giving up and crawling home to bed, muttering that she felt she was coming down with the flu. For the Manahans, this victory is more poignant than previous defeats. Mrs. Manahan lost a baby (her eleventh child, eighth boy) two months before the elections, was up and campaigning for Manny two weeks after her confinement. “I’ve had disappointments,” she told friends, “but this is the one that hurt most.” Her baby lived only two days; she never even saw it.
Connie Manahan says she felt surer this time her Manny would win but never dreamed he would get the second place in the tabulation: “We had no funds at all for propaganda materials. I saw other candidates spending money right and left and I told Manny, ‘We just can’t compete.’ “All they had were stickers and sample ballots. Six weeks before the polls, friends of Manny put up a billboard for him in Quiapo: it was his biggest single publicity display. But he had learned to speak Tagalog fluently, and that helped.
For Raul and Pacita Manglapus, this triumph is, of course, the Victory of the Voice—of both their voices. Whenever Raul ran out of words, or of breath, wife Pacita stepped forward and sang. Her friends say her singing was as big a hit with voters as her husband’s gift of tongues. Not even sleeplessness could dull his oratorical, her lyrical, magic.
Also sleepless during the tense days before and after the balloting was the grande dame of the Liberal Party, Doña Trining Roxas, who sought bed only when victory was certain. The sleeping dowager was thus unable to attend the first public expression of Liberal triumph: the rites in honor of Elpidio Quirino on November 16, his 71st birthday.
The rites began with mass at the San Marcelino church, where Vicky Quirino Gonzalez found the Old Guard massed around her but nary a sign of the United Opposition. The Macapagals could not come, Manny Pelaez was still in Mindanao, the erstwhile rah-rah boys who had caused Mr. Quirino so much pain were at Comelec or Camp Crame, exultantly counting, or in bed, hungrily sleeping.
Nevertheless, the Old Guard Liberals were in festive mood. After mass, the gay hubbub on the patio seemed a single refrain: “We’re back! We’re back! We’re back!” Sunshine glinted from faces once so current in Malacañang, notably of the ladies who were the Apo’s favorite partners at Palace balls: Nila Syquia Mendoza, Chedeng Araneta, Angela Butte, Carmen Planas. Ever the holy terror, Mameng Planas mockingly distributed cabinet portfolios among the Old Guard: this one was to be finance secretary, that one secretary of foreign affairs. Moving from one merry group to another, causing astonished pauses, like a ghost at a party, was Ambassador Romulo, come to attend this reunion of old friend. His offer to resign before the elections had, say the Liberals been a good omen for them: it had meant Mr. Romulo smelled a change coming.
From the church the Old Guard repaired to the South Cemetery, where the Man of the Hour, Macapagal, laid a wreath on the grave of the Apo. That noon, there was a banquet at a restaurant in Quezon City, and gathered for this happiest hour of the Liberals in a decade were more of the old familiar faces; Vicente Albano Pacis, Johnny Collas, Fred Mangahas. But when a speaker addressed the gathering as “Fellow Liberals,” there were objections: this was a gathering of the Friends of Quirino, not all of whom were Liberals. Unspoken was a parallel thought: that not all of today’s Liberals, especially the very new ones, had been Friends of Quirino.
While yesterday’s Liberals reminisced on the past and the Apo, today’s Liberals were already plotting the future. Slumber had not felled all the victors; still wide awake were Diosdado and Eva Macapagal. Drowsiness showed in her only in narrower eyes, in him only in paler cheeks and a tic in one eye. He said he could go without sleep for a month; she said she had been dozing on and off during the long wait. Whenever she awoke she would ask: “Well, how is it going now?” And her unsleeping husband would cry: “We’re winning!”
For Eva Macapagal, this triumph vindicates feminine intuition. “I am,” she says, “a person of strong presentiments.” She had had a presentiment of victory, had told her husband before the elections: “I think you’re going to win. I feel again as I felt in 1957.”
Macapagal himself had never had any doubts. His campaign to win the presidency was, he says, “methodical and scientific.” There could be only one outcome. In the light of his victory, his campaign, which we all regarded as an aimless wandering from barrio to barrio and a futile shaking of hands, does assume the look of a great design, of carefully planned military strategy. Nothing had been aimless; everything adds up. Each sortie into the wilds had made straighter route to Malacañang. And we now wonder why we failed to see what now seems so clear.
Invisible in the speckled forest because of its spots, the leopard stalks its prey, weaving round and round on velvet paws, in ever narrowing circles. Only when it closes in for the kill is it suddenly beheld in all its might and majesty: this sleek sly creature that blends into the light and dark of the forest, that had seemed to be wandering around in aimless circles.
Macapagal had been invisible to many, a nondescript personality (“negative” was how the NPs loved to describe him), a compulsive hand-shaker, a mousy little man going round and round in circles. Alas for those who could not spot the leopard for its spots! The coloring was protective, the circlings followed a route.
A cry has rent the political jungle.
The leopard has sprung.
The hackneyed thing to say is that Macapagal’s triumph is like Magsaysay’s. Both men undertook a barrio-to-barrio campaign; both toppled an unpopular regime accused of being graft-ridden—but here the resemblance stops.
Magsaysay was expected to win; Macapagal was not.
Nobody was really surprised when the Magsaysay vote began to assume the proportions of an avalanche; the surprise would have been if it didn’t. But the day after this month’s elections, astonishment that Macapagal should be leading at all was so great everybody felt the lead couldn’t last. What one heard on all sides was: “Yes, of course he’s leading, but only on the Manila vote. Just wait till the NP votes start pouring in.” When the lead was maintained the chorus became: “Oh, that’s only the Manila and Luzon vote. Wait till the votes from the South come in.” Finally, when the nationwide trend became unmistakable, those who cautiously conceded that Macapagal might win quickly added that his margin of victory would be slim.
Actually, Macapagal polled a bigger popular vote than Magsaysay.
President Garcia can hardly be blamed for not conceding defeat at once; he, too, just couldn’t believe that Macapagal was winning and, but not conceding, was merely expressing a general astonishment and incredulity. It seems now that everyone who voted for Macapagal did so with no great hope that he would win. Each pro-Macapagal voter must have felt solitary, one in a hundred. So many people who had expressed disgust of the Garcia regime had followed denunciation with despair: “But how can one vote for Macapagal?”
This is in sharp contrast to the atmosphere in 1953, when everyone who voted for Magsaysay felt quite sure that everybody else was doing the same.
The doubts about a Macapagal triumph were indicated by all the pre-election forecasts, even those that had him leading. The pollsters in general detected a trend in his favor but apparently questioned the strength of the trend. Those who gave him the lead carefully stressed that the lead was very small. In fact, the last poll survey to be made public just before the elections, the U.P poll, flatly declared that Garcia and Macapagal were running even, any edge in favor of the latter being so slight as to be “insignificant.”
When the returns started coming in, the public literally couldn’t believe its eyes.
Why was Macapagal, even when given the edge to win, so underrated?
The prime reason is that there was no visible evidence of his popularity, save those reports from the field of the large crowds he was attracting—and we have learned to be cynical about large crowds. And the belief that he was a “colorless” figured seemed to have been proved by his inability, even during the climactic period of the campaign, to arouse fervor where fervor would show. Unlike Magsaysay, he had failed to inflame the imagination or capture the sympathies of those elements of society which create glamour figures.
Into his Great Crusade, Magsaysay had drawn the press, the intelligentsia, the businessmen, the Church, and a lot of people previously indifferent to politics—a motley mass that ranged from college boys and society girls to writers and movie actors, each group forming a movement that helped swell the following, not to mention the finances, of the crusade.
But Macapagal had been unable to make a similar crusade of his campaign. The intelligentsia was actively hostile; the press was cool; the businessmen were wary; the Church was, happily, more mute than during the Magsaysay crusade; and the political dilettantes who had cooed over the Guy found Mac a sad sack. The most influential foreign group in the Philippines, the Americans, had made no bones of being behind Magsaysay; but in this year’s campaign, rumors of American support for the LPs were popularly believed to have been circulated, not by their nationalist rivals, but by the LPs themselves, and that they should feel the need to do so implied American unwillingness to do it for them. One eminent columnist assured his readers that the Americans—the thoughtful ones, that is—would rather have the NPs remain in power. Finally, when that bogey of Philippine politics, the Iglesia ni Kristo, also declared itself against Macapagal, his cause seemed lost indeed.
Yet he took his cause to the common folk and won.
His victory is more impressive than Magsaysay’s, having been achieved against greater odds and without the fancy trimmings of the Great Crusade. Far more than Magsaysay, he can be said to have been carried to triumph by the masses, and only by the masses. And since there were none to glamorize him, since his very foes deny he had any of the Magsaysay charm and magic, since no fringe movements helped swell his finances or the tide of his popularity, he can now claim to have won on sheer skill, intelligence, industry, and the faith in him of he people. He could not become a glamour figure, so he became a folk hero.
And such has been the success of his solitary campaigning that every Philippine politician will, from now on, have to ponder the methods of Macapagal the campaigner.
Poetry got Diosdado Macapagal into politics. Before 1949, his future had seemed to lie in the foreign service. He had risen to the fourth ranking position in the foreign affairs department; President Quirino, obviously grooming the young Pampango for a diplomatic career, sent him to the United States, to broaden his outlook. Macapagal was second secretary of the embassy in Washington.
Then, in 1949, the congressman for Pampanga, Huk-elected Amado Yuson, announced his intention to run for re-election. President Quirino was then engaged in a campaign to topple all Huk-elected officials. But Yuson had a special strength: he was recognized as the poet laureate of Pampanga, a province that loves its bards. Yuson drew crowds not as a politician but as a poet; at his mitings he did not deliver speeches, he improvised verses. Quirino saw it would take a poet to lick a poet.
He had Macapagal recalled from Washington and bade him run against Yuson. The platform was practically who was the better poet. Macapagal had had no experience in politics but did have renown as a bard. In his youth he had composed about a hundred poems, and they had established him as a public figure in his native province, important enough to be invited to address school convocations and crown fiesta queens.
The 1949 campaign in Pampanga turned into a poetic joust. Macapagal trailed his rival from plaza to plaza. Had Yuson delivered a particularly lovely poem in a certain town? The very next night, or a few nights later, Macapagal was in that town, delivering an even lovelier poem. He says he finds it easier to improvise in verse than in prose.
Because he had no campaign funds to use to publicize his candidacy he was forced to adopt a person-to-person approach, to go into every nook and corner of the province to introduce himself to the populace. Thus began, long before the Great Crusade of Magsaysay, the barrio-to-barrio campaign. For Macapagal, such a campaign was inevitable because he felt surest of himself among his own kind.
“Until I ran,” he says, “politicians in Pampanga came from the propertied class. I was the first poor candidate there.”
He not only won against Yuson but topped the congressional winners, which included Magsaysay, in second place. Then came another surprise. It was the custom among Pampango politicians, because they were wealthy, to go off to Baguio or Hong Kong after an election, to rest. But a few days after the 1949 polls, the barrio folk of Pampanga were astounded to find their winning candidate again in their midst. Macapagal had no money for a Baguio or Hong Kong vacation, and he thought that elegant custom silly anyway. Instead, he traveled all over the province again, to thank in person whose who had helped him win. This, cried the Pampangos, was something new in politics.
That first campaign established the style of Macapagal the campaigner; his next major campaign—for the Senate in 1955—disclosed an ability to project himself n a nationwide scale. He was, till then, regarded as a small-time, strictly local politician. Though he regularly made the lists of top congressmen of the year, his name was unknown outside Pampanga. In 1955, he was running with name politicians: Osias, Peralta, Magalona and Geronima Pecson. He was the expendable one on that list, merely followed the others on the regular campaign routes.
Then, in Pototan, Iloilo, came the revelation.
The LPs were waging a futile fight and they themselves knew it: their campaigning was lackadaisical. Macapagal, too, had prepared only one speech, which he used over and over again. One night—that night in Pototan—he finally got so sick of his own clichés he threw the speech away and began to talk as he pleased. It was raining anyway; there were few to listen. He could think aloud, could speak from the heart. He recalled the misery of his childhood, the squalor of his youth. He had almost, though the valedictorian, not attended his grade school graduation because he had no clothes and no shoes to wear. He had almost not gone to high school because there was no money for tuition fees; his mother had raised pigs, his grandmother had worked as a midwife, to send him to high school. All his dreams were one: to end poverty, because he had known how cruel poverty could be. He could not bear the thought of other children going through what he had gone through.
He was practically speaking to himself and was hardly aware that his audience, though the rain was falling harder, had drawn closer around him instead of running to shelter. When he stopped speaking, there was tumultuous applause. Mrs. Pecson stepped forward to speak but could not do so because the crowd kept on applauding and shouting: “Macapagal! Macapagal!” The congressman from Pampanga had to leave his seat and speak to the crowd again.
The following night, in another town, he discarded his prepared speech again and spoke extemporaneously: of his life and hard times, his struggles and dreams. Again he had a rapt audience, again he got tumultuous applause. Macapagal realized he had a larger appeal than he had thought.
This year, when he campaigned in Pototan, he told the people there; “Pototan is not merely a town to me. It is a landmark. For here I discovered I had a message for the nation.”
Macapagal lost in the 1955 senatorial race but topped all the Liberal candidates, though they were better-known than he. His colleagues in the party saw that he was no longer a small-time politico and a stop-Macapagal movement started. The party hierarchy was reorganized and Macapagal was ousted as vice-president for Central Luzon. But it was too late to stop his rise: the public already knew him as “Mr. Liberal.”
After his defeat in the polls, his wife said to him: “It seems your Divine Providence failed you this time. Had you won, you would have been minority floor leader in the Senate and the undisputed leader of the Liberal Party.”
Said Macapagal: “God answers our prayers in his own way. I have faith in his own design in my defeat.”
The design, as he sees it now, was victory in 1961: “Had I won in 1955, my party would have made me run for president in 1957, and I would surely have lost. Garcia had been president only nine months and voters would be inclined to give him a full term to show what he could do. Because I lost in 1955, I was good only for vice-president in 1957, and I had time to prepare to run for president n 1961 and win.”
The vice-presidential nomination was offered to him by a dying man: Speaker Eugenio Perez. Late one night, while the House was discussing the budget, the Speaker, pale and feeble, suddenly appeared in the chamber. Al the solons started up from their seats as if they had seen a ghost, for Perez was supposed to be on his deathbed: the doctors had given him up. Dragging his feet, he shuffled toward Macapagal. “I want to talk to you,” he said.
When they were alone together, Perez said to Macapagal: “The party is putting up Mr. Yulo for president because it has no money, but Mr. Yulo will be attacked. We need someone to run with him whose integrity cannot be questioned. The party has been good to you; not it’s your turn to help the party. If we only had money I would put you up for president. But I tell you: you will be president someday.”
Macapagal says he would have preferred to play it safe and just run for Congress again—but how could he refuse the plea of a dying man?
When he got home that night he woke up his wife to confess that he had made a decision without consulting her: he had agreed to run for vice-president.
“What are your chances?” she asked.
“And what will you do afterwards?”
“I’ll teach and practise law.”
The very next day, he went to the University of Santo Tomas to arrange a teaching contract, so sure was he that his election as vice-president was improbable. But when the NPs put up Laurel junior as their veep candidate and the NCPs selected Tañada, Macapagal began to think that he could win. Laurel junior was manifestly unpopular, and Tañada would divide the Tagalog vote.
But again there was the problem of finances. Macapagal had no money, and neither did the Liberal Party. All the funds came from Yulo and: I don’t think Mr. Yulo ever liked me,” says Macapagal.
Into the picture stepped Amelito Mutuc, an old acquaintance who had married into a wealthy family. Mutuc offered to direct Macapagal’s campaign.
“Can you raise two thousand pesos?” he asked Macapagal.
Macapagal borrowed two thousand from his wife; with the money Mutuc rented a building in Manila, bought a couple of typewriters and set up a Macapagal campaign headquarters.
Says Macapagal: “I had not a centavo for my first campaign. When I ran for the Senate I had about five hundred pesos. And I ran for vice-president on two thousand pesos.”
There were, however, the transportation expenses, which the LP candidates were apparently expected to shoulder themselves. The campaigners had been divided into teams; Macapagal noticed that he was not included in Mr. Yulo’s team. He was told to go to Mindanao and campaign there. But how could he go when he didn’t even have the fare? Instead, he looked up Yulo’s itinerary. He discovered that Yulo was in a certain Visayan town. Macapagal suddenly showed up there, during a rally, and when he spoke he praised Yulo to the skies. Delighted, Yulo told him: “You better come along with my group.”
“And that,” grins Macapagal, “was how I got through the campaigns without any funds. I just joined Mr. Yulo’s party.”
Though Macapagal polled more votes than Garcia, his victory was dismissed as a fluke. The popular view was that he had won on the strength of “negative” votes cast, not really for him, but against Laurel junior.
Macapagal was still “invisible” to many, though he had pulled up quite a feat: had won against the party in power at the height of its power.
President Garcia, it is said, had originally regarded the large popular vote for Macapagal as a directive from the people to make Macapagal serve in the government: there were hints from Malacañang that the vice-president would be appointed secretary of foreign affairs. But after a consultation with his council of leaders, Mr. Garcia decided not to give Macapagal a job.
“From that moment,” says Macapagal, “I decided to build up and strengthen the Liberal Party, to begin campaigning for the presidency, and to beat Garcia in 1961.”
He started campaigning during his very first year as veep, circled the country three times during his term: “It took me a year the first time, two years the second time, a year the third time.”
At first President Garcia allowed him to use a navy cutter, the Ifugao. Macapagal started with the most inaccessible areas: Palawan, the isles of the Badjaos, the Turtle Islands. He had, while still in the foreign affairs department, negotiated the return of the Turtle Islands to the Philippines, had raised the Philippine flag there. On his second trip, he covered the isolated areas on the Pacific coast. When he submitted his schedule for his third trip, which was to have included Batanes, President Garcia smelled what the vice-president was up to and forbade his further use of the Ifugao. Undaunted, Macapagal used inter-island steamers.
“It was a blessing in disguise,” he says. “On the steamers I met more people.” He ate with the third-class passengers, surprised them by cleaning up his plate, though the food was staler than most people could stomach.
In his wanderings, Macapagal reached places where the last government official people remembered having seen was Governor-General Leonard Wood. “I think,” says Macapagal, “that Wood was the one government official who tried to reach every place in the country.”
Macapagal was not always the politician in his four-year odyssey: he has an eye for the odd and the beautiful. In a coastal town in Samar he saw a man who was said to be 150 years old: “He was like a mummy, he looked dead already, but he could still talk.” Macapagal becomes lyrical when describing the brooks in Camiguin: “They are the most beautiful brooks I ever saw—water flowing over white stones. If I were an artist I would paint those brooks.”
At the same time that he was trying to reach every place in the country, he was building up his party. He saw the need for uniting the opposition but saw no hope for union as long as the Progressives clung to two ideas of theirs: first, that the Liberal Party was rotten to the core and could never return to power and, second, that they, the Progressives, could win by themselves. When negotiations for union in 1959 lagged, Macapagal abruptly ended them: “I saw it was useless to negotiate until I had proved to the Progressives that we could win in an election and that they couldn’t.” The Progressives tried to reopen the negotiations but Macapagal firmly repulsed them: “I just told them that we had already lost a month of the campaign. After all, I felt that union in 1959 was not important. What was important was union in 1961—and I could get that only by proving myself right in 1959.”
Then Ferdinand Marcos, who had been made to run for the Senate, got cold feet and wanted to withdraw. Marcos felt that Macapagal was courting disaster by deciding that the Liberal Party was to run alone, without any coalition with the Progressives. But Macapagal was willing to stake his political reputation and his presidential chances on that decision. He had more to lose than Marcos but was less apprehensive. He said to Marcos: “You not only will not lose but you will get first place.”
During the counting of the returns, the Progressives who had seemed at first to be winning, all dropped out, but three Liberals remained steady on the winning list, and Marcos did top it. The victory, says Macapagal, was not a random one; he had carefully engineered it. He had pinpointed the areas from where came the votes that had swamped the LPs in previous elections; during the campaign he concentrated on those areas. These were, he says, the “pockets” that had to be pushed back so that his “military line” would hold straight and steady. Having eliminated those “pockets,” Macapagal, after the balloting, sat back and waited confidently for the returns. His fellow Liberals nervously awaited the usual NP avalanche of votes to sweep them away—but Macapagal told them there would be no avalanche, and there was none.
Says Marcos: “That is why we respect Macapagal—because he makes decisions even against our will. Afterwards we find that he was right.”
Macapagal was proved right, too, about the Progressives. When Soc Rodrigo was quoted as saying, after the 1959 polls, that the Grand Alliance would continue, Macapagal said: “If there is one man who has no choice now but to join the Liberals, it is Soc Rodrigo.”
Then he sent Senator Estanislao Fernandez to ask Rodrigo if he was ready now to join the Liberals. Said Rodrigo: “What else can I do?”
“And that,” smiles Macapagal, “was what I had been saying all along.”
Again Macapagal had done the impossible: he had turned a discredited and disheartened LP into a winning party and he had united the opposition. If there be still doubts about his capacity for leadership, he points to the diverse personalities he was able, for this campaign, to bring together and organize into a team: Marcos, Manglapus, Lacson, Manahan, not to mention Roger de la Rosa.
“Each one a strong personality,” he sighs, “and all of them stars!”
What Macapagal did in 1959 he repeated in 1961. He circled the country a third time but concentrated on the new “pockets” revealed by the 1959 polls. The very first province he stormed this year was Batangas, where the LPs had always lost heavily. He campaigned there for a week, then moved on to Quezon, and then, to everybody’s amazement, returned to Batangas and campaigned through it all over again. The Batangueños said to him: “You are the first presidential candidate to campaign here twice.” The politicos predicted a Macapagal loss in Batangas, but he carried the province.
He went wherever the LP was weak, however remote the region. Everybody thought him crazy to go to the Davao town of Manay, which is a Nacionalista stronghold and almost inaccessible. Boats dock far off; passengers must plunge into neck-deep water and wade ashore, for small boats would be dashed by the strong waves against the rocks. On reaching the shore, the Manay-bound must still climb a steep rocky slope to reach the town. Though it was past midnight when his ship reached the place, Macapagal plunged into the water, waded ashore through the darkness, climbed up over the rocks, and found the townspeople of Manay still waiting for him. The mayor told him: “This is a Nacionalista town, but because you came here you will win here.”
The intrepidity Macapagal displayed during the campaign may well turn into legend. He crossed, on a frail fishing boat, that point of the San Bernardino Strait which folk in the vicinity regard with horror, because four currents converging there create a maelstrom. The crossing was pure agony; Macapagal got across without being sucked into the maelstrom—“but,” he shudders, “I don’t think I could do it again.”
Batanes had become an obsession with him ever since his scheduled trip there, in 1957, had to be cancelled with the Ifugao was forbidden him. Three subsequent attempts to sail to Batanes were thwarted by bad weather. Then, late in the last month of the campaign, he decided he just had to get there. He hired a fishing boat and set off. Halfway across, he noticed that the boat was slapping against the water: “That’s when it’s dangerous—not when a boat is rocking but when it’s slapping.” He said to the skipper of the boat: “Puede ba? If it’s possible, let’s go on. If not, let’s return.” Said the skipper: “We had better return.”
But there was no stopping Macapagal now. He wired his wife in Manila that he needed two planes. “To think that it was I who arranged that trip!” she wails now. Macapagal finally reached Batanes by plane, but the return trip was made with one engine dead.
Why had he risked his life to reach a place that had but a handful of voters? He says? “I wanted to show that it was not the votes that mattered to me. Besides, I had covered the entire country except Batanes. And when you say except, you remove the impact.”
The Sunday before the polls, Macapagal addressed the LP miting de avance on Plaza Miranda. He had not campaigned at all in Manila but the multitude he drew was epochal. “I felt,” he says, “that the people there had already made up their minds. They had not come to be convinced but just to be there.” Manny Pelaez nudged Mrs. Macapagal and whispered: “Just watch. The crowd will applaud your husband whatever he says.” “And,” says Mrs. Macapagal, “it was true. The people applauded even in the middle of a word!”
On the eve of the elections, Macapagal conducted a “talkaton” that lasted all night, answering questions from all quarters, demonstrating, for all to see, how quickly his mind worked. The invisible man was finally emerging as quite a dynamic chap. It was dawn when he went home, but not to sleep. He and Mrs. Macapagal immediately motored to his home town of Lubao, to vote. When they got there, at seven in the morning, the streets were already full of people impatient to vote.
The Pampangos had a cardinal, now they wanted a president.
That night, the poll returns began to paint an astounding new image of Macapagal. The man described as “colorless” had turned out to be a phenomenon.
Luck is still on his side. He is fortunate to become president when people are just beginning to see him clearly. Magsaysay became an idol too soon; adulation reached a peak during his campaign: there was nowhere else to go but down. So much was expected of the Guy he could not but disappoint. Barely two years after he assumed office there was already a marked chill in the air.
But Macapagal assumes office amid general incredulity rather than expectation, amid a growing curiosity rather than love. Because he was so underrated, anything he does now will have the quality of surprise. Because nothing was expected of him, he cannot disappoint. The way for him is still up. He is not yet entangled in a myth of himself; idolatry has still to becloud his eyes with incense. He should be able to accomplish more, since he has to earn the people’s love rather than justify it.
He comes to us practically unknown: an ambiguous figure, half light and half dark, moving toward the presidency and wresting it away with a few arms, though the dragons of power and propaganda stood round about.
Of his feat he says: “It was difficult, it was impossible, but we did it. Now, the job ahead is even more difficult, ten times more difficult. But I am read for it.”
The “Untimely Withdrawal” of Roger de la Rosa
By Quijano de Manila
EXPLODING ten days before E-Day, the opposition’s 50-megaton bomb has, during these last rapt days of the campaign, been spreading lethal fall-out—in the NP camp, say the LPs, who claim that the hysteria with which NP spokesmen reacted to the bomb betrayed how utterly the majority party was demoralized by it; in the LP camp, say the NPs, who claim that defections to the Garcia camp of some of Roger’s followers, with whom the LPs might have proved that politics is addition, indicate that the bomb may have blown up in the LP’s faces, because a lot of people, disgusted by it, have abandoned both Roger and Macapagal.
Both claims may be correct. It’s impossible, after all, of control the drift of fallout; and the opposition bomb could have caused damage in all the three camps involved. But the resonance of the explosion, the brilliance of the publicity, could have done the LPs no harm at all, being worth several months of campaigning and a million pesos’ worth of propaganda, focusing, as it did, national attention on the Liberals. And the beauty of it is that the NPs themselves helped whip up national interest in the LP show.
The LPs had the bomb ready by November 2, were set to detonate it, with grisly humor, on November 4, President Garcia’s birthday—but how get the public to wait agog for the explosion? To enhance the force of the bomb, public interest and suspense should precede it—but how build up the suspense? The LPs thought of putting ads in the papers bidding the public watch out for a terrific event, but the ad gimmick had been worked to death this election year: one more political ad promising a sensation might create no sensation at all.
Then providence stepped in. Somebody (the LPs suspect a disgruntled ex-adviser of Roger de la Rosa) leaked the news of Roger’s withdrawal to Malacañang. “And Malacañang,” happily grin the LPs, “did the rest.” The LPs have reason to describe initial NP reaction to the bomb as “hysterical,” for the first public announcement of it was made by radio news commentator Rafael Yabut, on November 3.
Mr. Yabut, never a tepid speaker to begin with, was more overwrought than usual as, with a shocked sob in his voice and much banging of his fists, he informed the nation that, even as he spoke, a dastardly plot was being laid, a monstrous deal was being consummated, and a presidential candidate was withdrawing from the race for unspeakable reasons, reasons that had driven the candidate’s wife, in disgust, to attempt suicide.
Mr. Yabut named no names, but everybody knew whom he was accusing of such fearful stratagems.
Mr. Yabut was followed by Malacañang Press Secretary Jose Nable, who, the next day, had even more lurid revelations to make.
Mr. Nable declared that:
“The presidential aspirant agreed to withdraw from the race in favor of the other candidate in consideration of the staggering amount of P500,000.
“In addition to the P500,000, the withdrawing candidate would be granted complete and absolute control of the Central Bank and the Commission of Customs, and the freedom to fill up any three Cabinet positions;
“The withdrawing candidate had proposed identical terms to President Garcia but President Garcia had rejected the proposal outright as he condemned the attempt to commercialize the highest post in the gift of our people, and bluntly told this particular candidate that the post of president can never be for sale;
“As a result of this withdrawal, and after failing to dissuade her husband, the wife of the withdrawing candidate took poison and was committed to a private hospital.”
Mr. Nable had taken the trouble to dig up all these horrors so that “the entire Filipino people” might be warned against “this great conspiracy” against them.
Cried Mr. Nable, aghast:
“The Judas in Philippine politics, who has all this time campaigned and posed as the champion of the common people, will betray the very masses whom he swore to defend and protect. The Biblical sale of Christ for 30 pieces of silver has found its counterpart in the twentieth century.”
And he branded this attempt by the withdrawing candidate “to deliver to a political ally the votes that were entrusted to him by a trusting electorate” as “the most unique in double-cross,” apparently forgetting that the Nacionalistas had nothing but praise for Ambassador Romulo when Mr. Romulo withdrew from the presidential race in 1953 to support the Nacionalista candidate. Did not Mr. Romulo, too, deliver to a political ally the votes entrusted to him by a trusting electorate—or is sauce for the goose applesauce for the gander?
Nor should Mr. Nable be so worried that this “unholy alliance” has brought about “a national shame that mars the good name of our country before the eyes of the nations of the world.” Politics is understood to be naughty everywhere in the world; even in such a civilized country as the United States, a politician of the stature of Mr. Richard Nixon, who is planning to run for governor of his state, can be and was recently accused of trying to persuade, with a very juicy deal, the incumbent governor not to run again—and the Americans are not exactly hanging their heads in shame.
Moreover, Mr. Nable’s use of such epithets as “Judas” and “double-cross” are so passionate one begins to wonder if the passion is really in behalf of the voters whom, after all, the Nacionalistas have always contemptuously characterized as the ignorant fans of a movie idol. To call somebody “Judas” is to imply that he was the confidant of whomever he betrayed; and the term “double-cross” presupposes a shady deal. Was Mr. Nable trying to say that a third party—of whom Roger was a confidant and with whom he had a deal—had been made a fool of?
Mr. Nable’s metaphorical language is rather obscure; Roger himself is more forthright. At the November 4 press conference he remarked casually: “The rumor is that Malacañang paid me to run.” Roger dismissed the rumor as just a rumor; so why should Mr. Nable persist in hinting that a Dr. Frankenstein was assaulted by his own creature?
The story is that whoever was helping finance Roger’s campaign got scared and furious when Roger started invading the South; so the subsidy stopped. The break may be roughly dated about three weeks ago, after Amang Rodriguez had bluntly declared: “At this stage of the campaign, De la Rosa is getting more votes from Garcia than from Macapagal.”
And at this stage of the game, do all the NP innocents whose sense of honor has been so deeply outraged have to be told that politics is rough and dirty and that little boys who play with fire can get burned?
The Yabut broadcast started a run on the bank. From noon of November 3, the bakya-and-salakot crowd began storming Roger’s house, wanting to know if his slogan—“We Shall Return To Malacañang With Roger De La Rosa As President”—had indeed shrunk to a starker notice: “No Returns, No Refunds.”
His henchmen say they were afraid there would be trouble that night, so ugly was the temper of the idol’s fans. The early-evening crowd, mostly from the suburbs, eventually dispersed; but by two o-clock in the morning another crowd, from more distant hinterlands, had formed in front of the senator’s gate and was demanding to be let in. These indignant visitors were admitted and staged what practically amounted to a sit-down strike in the large nipa house on the senator’s lawn.
“Let us not move from here,” said they, “until he himself comes and tells us what he really intends to do.”
Noon came, and they were still there, squatting inside the nipa house and along the driveway, but their leader had still not appeared to them.
Only a few of them were allowed inside the senator’s residence, and there they found not Roger but his brother Jaime, who, when asked about Roger, replied with a scathing attack on the administration.
One thing must be said for Roger: he really drew the peasant crowd, for the faces one saw on his lawn that morning had the look of the Philippine earth: burned black by the sun and gnarled by misery. The men were in cheap polo shirts, the women in shapeless camisolas. It was obvious they had dressed in a hurry. One heard that this one had come all the way from Quezon, that one all the way from Cagayan; a man said he had flown in from Mindanao. All had a common complaint: why did they have to learn about this from Yabut? Why hadn’t Roger taken them into his confidence? They all claimed to be volunteer workers who had used their own money to spread Roger’s cause. If Roger backed out, they would lose face. How could they return to their barrios if they had lost face?
They all clung to the hope that all this was but more “black propaganda.” Their boy had not withdrawn; or if he was thinking of doing so, they would persuade him to continue the fight: let him but appear before them.
A cry rose up:
“Matalong lumalaban, huwag matalong umuurong (To go down fighting, not to go down retreating)!”
Had he lost heart because he had run out of funds? There was still some money they could scrape up among themselves; one man said he had already contributed P3,000 and was willing to contribute more; after all, there were only ten days left of the campaign. It didn’t matter if Roger was a sure loser.
“Let the votes we cast for him,” cried a bespectacled woman from Binangonan, “be a clear picture for 1965!”
The cheers that greeted this seemed to indicate that the Roger extravaganza would, by insistent public request, be extended for another ten days. Poor deluded rustics who did not know that the decision had already been made! They could cheer and argue and weep all they wanted; they were standing outside a closed door. Their fate was being settled, without their knowledge, in other rooms of other houses behind other doors, while they offered their very blood to the cause.
But as the day climbed toward noon and no Roger showed up, hope became feebler, the mutterings became darker. Inside the nipa house and all over the driveway, angry knots of disciples debated what to do.
Some said they would still vote for Roger, even if he had withdrawn, even if their votes should be “nulo.” Others cried that Roger could commit himself but not them to another candidate. The angriest spoke bitterly about the quality of Pampango blood and swore that they would, in protest, go over to the Garcia camp. A few still wistfully hoped that Roger would come and tell them that the show would go on.
By five that afternoon, the hope was dead. Roger had appeared on TV, with Macapagal; the withdrawal had been announced, the change of stand had been made.
That night, Roger’s house stood dark and silent. Gone were the noisy folk who had filled the lawn all day. The angry ones made good their threat and went over to the Garcia camp that very night. The undecided ones crept back to their barrios, wondering how to save face. The trip back must have been agonizing: whichever way they looked they saw that handsome face smiling from posters, from billboards, from streamers hung across roads, promising Malacañang to all these pathetic folk who had hitched their carretelas to a star.
They did not know it, but they had been looking up that day at a dead star, a star that had ceased to exist days before, though seemingly “still in its appointed place in the heavens,” a star that had, in fact, begun to fade away two weeks before, in mid-October, which was when negotiations started between he Roger and Macapagal camps.
The initial feelers were made by two men who are, like Roger and Macapagal, from Lubao; all four were boys together. In Roger’s camp was Atty. Antonio Ybarra, his legal adviser, who had begun to feel that carrying on the fight was futile. In Macapagal’s camp, the contact man was former Pampanga governor Jose Lingad, whose intent, at first, was merely to effect a reconciliation between Roger and Macapagal. The two had been like brothers since boyhood; Lingad felt that even politics should not have turned them into mortal enemies. Why could they not continue to be friends though rivals? When Lingad discovered that Roger, faced by a financial crisis in his campaign, might not only be willing to re-establish friendship but might even be persuaded to back out in favor of Macapagal, what had started as a peacemaking mission turned into a frantic political operation.
Two more men entered the picture: Jaime de la Rosa from Roger’s camp; Amelito Mutuc from Macapagal’s camp. Lingad continued to be the liaison man, traveling from one camp to another, following the two candidates to the field, and sending back to Manila coded messages on the progress of the negotiations.
The strategists named their project Operation Rabbit; to ensure secrecy they have every participant a code name. Macapagal and Roger were respectively referred to as Oscar and Cesar, the names they had used in zarzuela days; Ybarra was called Paul (because he warbles in the Paul Anka manner); Lingad was dubbed Bob Steele (because he looks like a brawny cowboy); and Amelito Mutuc, over his indignant protests, was named Nehru. Mutuc says that the others could never remember his code name; one time he sent Lingad a telegram signed Nehru and Lingad wired back: Who the hell is Nehru?
Negotiations were going smoothly when something happened that almost blew them up: two sisters of Roger, Africa and Gloria, suddenly decided to come out in favor of Macapagal and campaign for him. Later, people would put two and two together and hazard the guess that the decision of the sisters was part of the plot to capture Roger and should have been read as a portent of Roger’s withdrawal; but the organizer’s of Operation Rabbit say that they had nothing to do with the decision of the sisters and were, in fact, more dismayed than delighted by it. For Roger flared up and accused them of bad faith, of continuing the war against him even while discussing peace terms. “Look,” he said, “you’re even using my sisters against me!”
He was finally convinced that what had happened was a fortuitous coincidence, and Operation Rabbit went on. His two sisters were turned over to LP campaign manager Taning Fernandez, who was soon heard loudly wailing: “Now I have three prima donas on my hands—Lacson and the two De la Rosa sisters!”
After two weeks of long-distance, proxy talks, Roger agreed to a face-to-face meeting with Lingad and Mutuc. The site chosen was Ybarra’s house, which is in a wild lonely hinterland of Quezon City. The appointment was for Halloween night, but Roger, who was campaigning in Laguna, did not show up until two in the morning. He came with his brother Jaime. Waiting up for him were Ybarra, Lingad and Mutuc.
The two LP men at first kept the talk on Roger’s campaign, praising his ability to draw the masses. Says Mutuc: “Roger is a sentimental man and is really sincere about wanting to improve the conditions of the masses. Talk to him about them and he softens up. Then it’s easy to reason with him.”
They asked him what his conditions would be for withdrawing. Roger said he wanted his program of government to be adopted by Macapagal, no retaliation against his men, and the promise that he could continue to do what he had been doing: acting as a “bridge” between the people and the government. He made one tangible demand: that he be given a higher place in the LP hierarchy.
Mutuc scoffs at the rumors that the withdrawal was a financial bargain: “As a matter of fact, I felt sure that one of Roger’s conditions would be reimbursement of his campaign expenses, but he didn’t even ask for that.”
Mutuc says that Roger said that he was impelled to consider withdrawing from the race by the thought of his followers: he himself was not afraid of defeat but he did not relish the thought that he was surely leading his followers to defeat; by leading them into the Macapagal camp, he felt he was leading them to victory. Roger, it seems, has been misunderstood by those of his followers who thought he had betrayed them: what he did, he did for their sake.
The conference broke up at dawn, with Roger assuring the LP men that he was ready to withdraw the moment Macapagal accepted his conditions. Mutuc at once sent a telegram to Macapagal, who was in Iligan City: “Operation Rabbit successful. Bob Steele flying to see you.”
Lingad booked passage on a plane and was at the airport at seven that morning. November 1. The plan was that he was to brief Macapagal on what had happened, then fly back to Manila with Macapagal the following day, for the signing of the pact. The withdrawal would be announced that very day, after Roger and Macapagal had signed the pact.
But toward seven in the evening of November 1, Mutuc almost collapsed from surprise when Macapagal walked in. Mutuc lives in Forbes Park; Macapagal had gone there from the airport, was still in his campaign cap and jacket. Nobody knew he was in town.
“But where’s Lingad?” asked Mutuc.
“I don’t know,” replied Macapagal. “I just got his telegram.”
It turned out that Lingad, who was merely a chance passenger on the plane, had not been able to get a seat and didn’t go to Mindanao at all. He had merely sent Macapagal a wire bidding him come to Manila at once. How secret Operation Rabbit was kept may be deduced from the difficulties Lingad had in determining where to send the telegram. He called up LP headquarters for a schedule of Macapagal’s Mindanao tour but the LPs at the headquarters, not knowing that Lingad was on an important mission, refused to tell him where Macapagal was. Lingad had to find out for himself, correctly sent the telegram to Sindangan, Zamboanga del Norte. Macapagal had just arrived there when the wire came; he at once boarded the plane again and flew off to Manila.
Macapagal told Mutuc that he wanted the pact signed that very night if possible because he had to go back to Mindanao the next day for very important rallies. But the pact could not be prepared without Ybarra and Lingad, and Mutuc could not locate them either. Whenever he called up Ybarra, Ybarra’s phone was busy.
“Everything,” sighs Mutuc, “seemed to be happening to me that day!”
Macapapgal, impatient, rushed off to his own house, to greet his wife. It was her birthday and he had a very nice present for her: the news that Roger was practically set to withdraw.
Mutuc finally drove over to Ybarra’s house; he found nobody at home and the telephone receiver improperly hooked: that was why it had been buzzing all the time. He learned that Ybarra and Lingad had both gone home to Lubao, to spend All Saints Day there. He wired them to return at once.
They arrived at two in the morning and, with Mutuc, began drafting the joint manifesto of Roger and Macapagal, the separate statements of each, and the letter to the Commission on Elections. To polish the grammar and give the documents a literary tone, they summoned a veteran workhorse of the Liberal Party: Hermie Atienza.
By five a.m., the papers were ready, Macapagal was called up and came running. Over breakfast, he went over and revised the drafts. Then Ybarra and Lingad rushed them over to Roger’s house, with instructions that they were to be signed at once because Macapagal had to fly back South at ten that morning.
But ten o’clock struck and the emissaries had still not returned. Then word came that Roger had asked for two more days, to consult his leaders, and that he wanted a “confrontation meeting” with Macapagal that noon.
Macapagal decided to defer his trip and consented to the meeting.
He waited in a bedroom of Ybarra’s house, with Lingad, Ybarra and Mutuc. The vice-president was moody and nervous. He said to the three men with him:
“You are close to me, Pepe, and you, Tony, and you, Mel. But I tell you: no one is as close to me as Roger. It nearly broke my heart that the one closest to me should be the one to oppose my bid for the presidency.”
Roger and Jaime de la Rosa arrived and were shown up to the bedroom.
“Pare!” cried Roger when he saw Macapagal.
“Pare!” cried Macapagal as he strode toward Roger.
The two men fell into each other’s arms and burst into tears. The brothers-in-law have, since they grew up, been calling each other pare, being compadres.
The rest of the group left the room, leaving the two erstwhile rivals alone. They had a lot of unburdening to do. They were alone together for an hour, were red-eyed from weeping when they finally called back the others.
Mrs. Ybarra sent lunch up to the bedroom—a festive lauriat she had ordered from a restaurant—but her guests were much too excited to eat. Macapagal said all he could take was boiled eggs.
As he was peeling the eggs he said: “Just look, even this habit of mine of eating boiled eggs, I got from Roger. When I was a sickly body he told me I should eat boiled eggs—and I’ve been doing so ever since.”
Suddenly he began to shake with laughter, leaning toward Roger: “Remember when you and I—the eggs?”
Roger began to roar with laughter too: “And the neighbors chased us?
They had been boys together and this was one of many private memories: one day they had picked up some eggs from a neighbor’s yard and almost got caught.
At three in the afternoon they parted, after another embrace and more tears; and Macapagal flew back to Mindanao. He had managed to sneak away to Manila without making the newsmen in his entourage suspect that something was afoot. The inquisitive ones were told that he had merely gone to greet his wife on her birthday.
Three days later, on November 4, he was back in Manila. After four that afternoon, he and Roger stood side by side before the TV cameras, announcing to the nation that the Pampangos were solid again. The monster bomb had gone off.
Everybody agrees that the timing of the bomb was terrific, though the NPs can be forgiven for saying that the day chosen, President Garcia’s birthday, revealed the quality of the minds behind the bomb.
The most explosive announcement of this pre-election period was made in a studio of the ABS Station, before a crowd of newsmen and jubilant LPs.
Macapagal arrived first, looking exultant, in light-violent trousers and a silk-colored baro embroidered all over with the LP shield. He strode to the row of newsmen and shook hands with all of them. “I can’t get over the habit, you know,” he quipped.
Lacson was there, and Senator Marcos, and Hermie Atienza, in one of his old suits. Hermie Atienza is one politico who has not been converted to the barong Tagalog; he persists in wearing prewar suits—and do they look prewar. Malicious folk, observing his frayed cuffs and lapels, remark: “The LP really should win, if only so Hermie can buy himself new suits.” But Hermie says that, after his party wins, he will have to give up suits and adopt the baro: “Macapagal says that coats like this one I’m wearing have too many pockets!”
Applause greeted the entrance of Roger, and a shock of surprise, for with him was his wife Lota. She looked like a Garbo, in a dark-chocolate frock and a severe hairdo, the hair swept tight from her face and knotted into a bun that crowned her head. Pale and grave, stark and statuesque, she drew all eyes and necessitated a revision of the program. She said she wanted to speak.
(The joke then current was that Lota had been deeply upset by Roger’s “untimely withdrawal.”)
Roger was in gray trousers and a white shirt with thin check-stripes in blue, and he looked very quiet and serious too, speaking in a very low, often inaudible voice.
“After deep soul-searching, I have come to the firm conclusion that the only way we can effect a change for the better in the life of our people is to unite against the present administration. I have thus decided to withdraw my candidacy for the presidency of the Philippines in favor of Vice-President Macapagal.
“Believe me, my friends, my decision was not easy to reach. It means a great personal sacrifice for me and my wife, and for thousands of our friends, sympathizers and supporters who have fought for what we believed to be a just and rightful cause: the cause of the common tao.
“But even the noblest idealism must give way to the unbreakable wall of realism.
“Divided, the opposition will fall; united, it will triumph.
“The presidency, however exalted the office, is and should merely be an instrument for the achievement of the public good. It should never be proclaimed or seen as an end in itself.
“What have I proved during these months that I have been campaigning for the presidency? This: that the masses are no longer the docile, helpless creatures that the political bosses take them to be. They are no longer content to play a passive role, taking what comes as their fate. They are ready and willing to take political action. This I have learned in the few months of my presidential campaign; and to those who seek to betray the people, I say, beware of their power.
“I will not stoop low to answer at this solemn moment the malicious and evil propaganda that are being spread about this decision I have taken. Suffice it to say that my conscience is absolutely and clearly satisfied that this is the best that could be done for our fatherland. Let our people and history be the ultimate judge.”
Macapagal praised the “patriotic step” Roger had taken. “United Opposition victory is doubly assured,” cried he. “This marks the end of the venal Nacionalista regime!”
Then Lota de la Rosa joined her husband and Macapagal at the table in front of the cameras to speak for herself. Her voice is deep, husky and emotional; whenever she mentioned her husband she turned her face toward him.
“I have decided to appear here this afternoon because of ugly rumors that have been spread to the effect that I am opposed to my husband’s decision to withdraw. This is not true. His decision is my decision.
“Some people, in their evil desire to destroy us, have spread the yarn that I have tried to take my life because of this decision. This is nothing but a lie—a monstrous, evil lie.
“It is true, my friends, that I have been to a hospital. But it was due to my low blood pressure, aggravated by the fatigue and exhaustion caused by the rigors or the campaign. That malicious people in the pay of the powers-that-be have dared distort this fact is evidence of the extent to which they will go in order to continue holding on to that power.”
Afterwards, Roger was interrogated by the newsmen. Did he think his withdrawal enhanced Macapagal’s chances of winning? “As far as I am concerned,” he replied, “the elections are over.” What did he think of Malacañang folk’s comments on his withdrawal? “Tell them,” said he, “to start packing.” And he said he would file libel charges against certain of those folk.
As he spoke, his brother Jaime and his sisters Gloria and Africa stood in the background weeping. Theirs was the only show of emotion during this TV spectacle in which one felt rather than actually saw the drama, watching those two brothers-in-law together again under the spotlights, who had spent their youth together before the spotlights.
Yet the brilliance of the spectacle only heightened the darkness of the mysteries behind it, mysteries that promise more bombs and explosions, mysteries that include two foreigners, one accused of having put up the money for the withdrawal, the other suspected of having leaked the news of the withdrawal to Malacañang. The NPs are especially incensed against the former, having apparently forgotten all the Americans involved in their capture of the Palace in 1953. The LPs are talking deportation too, being wrathful against the other foreigner, whom they believe to have been Roger’s “evil genius,” the one who lured him away from the Liberals.
But the most attentive spectator of that TV spectacle must have been the man in whose honor and on whose birthday it was staged. Down in Tagbilaran, President Garcia turned 65, had a birthday cake, got a kiss from his wife, another kiss from an impetuous lady physician, was at home all day to hundreds of well-wishers. His leaders say that he was undisturbed by the Roger withdrawal, so unconcerned by it that he even laughed merrily as he discussed it with his leaders—at three o’clock in the morning.
The LP bomb seems to have been a multiple birthday present—for President Garcia, who celebrated on November 4; for Mrs. Macapagal, who celebrated on November 1, even for Roger himself, who celebrates on November 12. All these people believe that the bomb increased their respective parties’ chances of winning.
All are sure that the birthday bomb will result in a joyful message on November 14:
“Many happy returns!”