Chapter 6: The Plantation
The pony's hooves sank into half an inch of mud. The short rain earlier in the day had turned the narrow trails into sludge, making the climb even more difficult. Teniente Triviño had to get down from the driver's seat to pull the beleaguered animal several times during the journey.
When we reached the abacá plantation, the lieutenant was a mess and more tired than the horse. I pitied him, but he had insisted on this, perhaps bored with having nothing to do in town.
My daughter nudged me multiple times to help, but I was just an old man, and I quite enjoyed seeing city folk struggle, both in this life and the previous one.
It was immediately obvious to anyone with an eye that he was a nerd as soon as he got out of the boat. He was as stiff as a rifle, his speech too formal, his hair well-combed, his face well-shaved, his uniform well-pressed, and his boots so well-polished you could see your reflection in them.
My daughter was the fairest in all of Marinduque, yet he did not even seem to show a single hint of interest. And much of the time he spent in my house, he spent absorbed in his books.
Of course, I did not forget his Nobel Peace Prize-winning answer the other night.
Seeing him all muddied and disheveled was a pleasure.
"Teniente, are you all right?" My daughter rushed to the young officer, carrying a bumbong, a bamboo tube crafted into a water container.
Isidro Triviño snatched the bumbong, greedily gulped down the water, then poured some over himself. He murmured a thank you as he stumbled toward the nearest hut.