Giving a lecture under the Albert Faurot Series is way out of my element. I am neither a literary critic nor a creative writer, though I confess there have been times when I pretended to be. But pretension and legitimate expression are worlds apart, so it was with serious misgivings and reluctance that I gave in to Prof. Ian Casocot’s invitation and encouragement that I give this lecture on my father, Jose Villahermosa Montebon’s book, A Cupful of Anger/Bottle Full of Smoke. I finally agreed when Ian assured me that all I needed to do was share my insights on Papa’s stories: my personal views and impressions of him as a son.
Parenthetically, I wish to thank Professor Casocot for his special appreciation of Papa’s works, long lost and buried in the files of our Sillimaniana section, obsessing almost to have these rediscovered and published into a book. In truth, Ian is the real “author” of this project. Starting as a term paper assignment for my daughter, Mara, who was then Ian’s student, the project came to life when Ian expanded the research through his other students in later years. My brother, Roberto and I, with our families, owe Ian a literary debt of gratitude which can never be repaid. Through his single-minded goal of encouraging us to publish this book, Ian allows us to share some of Papa’s most valuable treasures to the rest of the world. So today, we honor Jose V. Montebon Jr., the writer, on his birth month – he would have turned 88 on Feb. 1 — and partake of his literary legacy.
In writing a literary criticism of Papa’s works, Palanca-awardee Ian Casocot writes: “…the stories that Montebon penned in his youth are deeply moral tales where he pits his protagonists against very difficult choices….He succeeds mostly because he refuses to give us definite answers to these moral dilemmas, preferring instead to immerse the reader in the moral complexities only to hold back to make them reconsider their own decisions as to what should, what must, what could happen.”
As a young writer, Papa must have been influenced by the modern-writing style then in vogue, the open-ended story popularized by the Russian writer Anton Chekhov in his famous story The Lady with the Dog (LnC Silhouette Magazine, Australia, Aug. 12, 2013). In the open-ended narrative, the conclusions are not clearly stated. Readers must resolve the ending with their imagination given only the sequence of events provided by the writer. The open-ended narrative lends to interactive reading, inviting the reader to co-create the story’s conclusion using the possibilities given by the writer.
In this collection of stories, Papa does exactly that. In his award-winning story, Bottle Full of Smoke, he leaves us wondering after the final scene, does Berto and his father, Mamerto have a violent or emotional confrontation, and to what end? How does it bode for Soling’s future as the physically abused wife and Berto’s mother?
The realists among us here will probably want to see Mamerto go to jail for spousal abuse, and Soling and Berto starting a new life as persons freed of domestic oppression. On the other hand, the optimists here will likely see a Redemption Moment – a self-realization by Mamerto of the abuse he has brought upon his family, a repentance, and a Valentine’s Day happily ever after for the family. So, which ending would you prefer?
The stories of Papa take on the Lyrical Form, which, according to critic Eileen Baldeshwiler, “relies for the most part on the open-ending. Instead of focusing on plot, the Lyrical story is distinguished by its emphasis on a central recurring image or symbol, around which the narrative revolves, and from which it acquires an open and flexible meaning.”
Aside from my enlightenment on Papa’s writing style and form, I came across a very surprising, even shocking insight. Many of you who knew my father will agree that he had a disarming, jolly personality, to the point of being charming. Among family and colleagues, he was light-hearted, often making jokes and appreciating the bright side of things. Knowing this of him, we ask ourselves, why don’t we experience a “bright-eyed and bushy tailed” flavor in his stories? Instead, a certain angst inside seems to have driven him to write around such dark and morally-conflicting themes such as death, the war, revenge, temptation, ambition, obsession, misfortune, betrayal and oppression. The young, happy man on the surface, seemed to have suppressed hidden angry demons inside.
Was this a mere stage borne of a young man’s idealism and the consequent disappointments with the realities he was forced to confront? Was this a stage which will gradually be mellowed with compromise and middle age? Or was this the burden from scars etched indelibly in a heart that was raised to honor and uphold truth, justice and mercy? Might this be the consequence of going through some deep and dark fears that only the experience of war, albeit vicariously, can induce and return time and again to haunt a man’s consciousness? Those of us who never went through a war, can never know, even guess its torment upon the psyche.
As a child approaching his teens, Jose Montebon Jr., fondly called Efren by his close family, was thrust upon the war in Negros Oriental. Too young to join in the fighting, he had to stay with his mother, aunts and cousins in the enclave, in the deep hills above Balugo, Sibulan, called DoAlMon, an acronym for the three families who served as protectors of that distant and hidden community – Dominado, Alviola, and Montebon.
Today, there are no traces of DoAlMon between the hills above Balugo and Maningcao, host of the famous twin lakes. And while none of the locals can point to where exactly that lost horizon called DoAlMon may be found, its existence is documented in Rev. Chapman’s book, Escape to the Hills. Recollections of DoAlMon also remain among the very few survivors of that period, and among those lucky enough to have stories of the war in Sibulan passed on to them. Despite its mystery, there are hints that DoAlMon may be near the popular tourist place called Kana-an in Upper Balugo.
The location of DoAlMon suggests that this may have provided the scenic landscape for Papa’s war and countryside stories, Blood in the Valley, Manhood, Summer Heat, and Bottle Full of Smoke. You will notice that in these stories are recurring images of water, whether in the form of a stream, a spring, a watering hole, or even heavy rain; or the ubiquitous rock from which blood flows or where young love blooms. Or the tree, paradox of death and life, or of hope as in a Christmas tree.
Even as Papa relied heavily on familiar topography in his stories, he liked to play around with the locations. When I was a young child, we lived in a rented bamboo house in the interior part of Tubod district, more proximate to Looc. This was where Papa and Mama lived, sharing the house with Teddy and Lina Cortes, also newly-wed. When Papa used Tubod as a location in his story Blood in the Valley, his description of it is closer to what might have been familiar scenery in DoAlMon. So while he refers to a stream for which Tubod is named after, the hills and valleys and the lone tree — long dead but still standing to support life, a metaphor for the war — very much belong to DoAlMon. Perhaps, he was injecting a private and personal joke, or he was simply being consistent with being a fictionist, not daring to adhere too closely to actual places or events.
Coming back to Silliman after the war, the confusion from the war must have weighed heavily upon his young shoulders. So when the writing muse struck, he relied on the richness of his recent memories. Manhood is a bit of a biographical piece, projecting as it does his own aspirations to join his older brother, Luis, and other cousins and uncles in the guerilla movement. In his boyhood he must have daydreamed or fantasized about what he thought was the romantic life of a soldier. The reality of war stepped in, however, and he concluded the story in the open, intriguing way it ends. This story also hints of the Sibulan guerillas’ adventures in the war, including the failed raids, as well as the historic Battle of Looc Hill.
Before the war, Papa grew up in a modest household. His father, Jose Sr., was the provincial warden who moved around the circles of political leaders in Dumaguete and Negros Oriental by his position. Their family was particularly close to their neighbor, Dumaguete’s future mayor, and the Province’s eventual governor, Mariano Perdices.
As a young boy, Papa often visited the Carcel, the Provincial Jail Barracks. He did this regularly to have his haircut with his siblings by the inmates, and sometimes to play julen or marbles with the inmates. He used to tell me stories of some inmates teasing him that there were duwende in the carcel, who were so noisy playing with Papa’s julens at night, that they sometimes couldn’t sleep.
To Papa, in his young impressionistic mind, the inmates at the carcel weren’t criminals, but simply friends. From these friendships, and the stories these inmates may have shared, Papa gained insight into the desperation of the human condition, and he must have developed an early intuitive sense of social injustice. Thus, the prayer of Nardo poignantly cries out for God’s intervention as he drowns in a sea of his perceived misfortunes.
In his desperation, what do you think Nardo finally resolves to do? Papa doesn’t tell you in the end, so you must make the moral decision yourself.
Growing up among public officials, Papa was no stranger to politics. It is no wonder then that his most powerful story was Cupful of Anger which should speak to us even today, as nothing much has changed in Philippine politics. We still have the ambitious, the greedy, and the unscrupulous, the idealistic, the principled, and sadly, the larger population of apathetic onlookers.
This is a story of three men, Don Antonio, the ambitious and crafty politician; Don Ramon, his carefree, but morally upright elder brother, and Roberto, Antonio’s erstwhile friend and colleague turned political nemesis. When things go badly in enticing Roberto to withdraw from the race, Antonio and Ramon’s conflicting values take them to different moral destinations. How will Antonio resolve his conflict with Ramon? What will the election results show? How should the Filipino political story properly end? Papa, takes us through this maze of infinite possibilities, none of which, I suspect, will be completely satisfying.
As a little footnote, Papa liked to establish a personal, non-literary connection with his characters. It was as if he wanted to fasten a safety seatbelt rooted to his reality, lest he get lost and get carried away in his imaginary and fictional creations. In many instances, the names he gave his characters had no connection or similarity to real-life persons from whom he borrowed the names. His favorite name for a character, of course, is Roberto, my younger brother’s namesake, born a good six years after Papa’s last known publication.
Roberto figures in Manhood, Grandfather’s Grave, Cupful of Anger, Bottle Full of Smoke, Mourning with the Sun, and even as a female character, the mother Nang Berta, in Summer Heat. He also used Riodil, the name he gave me, which is a combination of Dean Rio of the College of Education, and the “-dil” in Edilberto Tiempo.
In Mourning with the Sun, Riodil is the kid of Bert, Nardo’s former classmate, and now a more successful friend. Interestingly, Papa wrote this story under the pseudonym J. Riodil Mendez, which are, coincidentally, my initials. By the way, Mendez was my mother’s middle surname. He also named one character Manang Virgie in Children of God. My mother was Manang Virgie to all her siblings and nephews and nieces.
In the Ring, a story of obsession with material things, the villain, Señorito Luis, who either seduces or rapes Rita, is named after Papa’s elder brother. And there are many others, some whom I only have vague recollections of as friends or relatives while I was growing up.
In 1960, a year before my younger brother Roberto was born, we had moved to our newly-constructed house at the back of Davao Cottage, and a hotel which is now Coco Grande. This would be our home for the rest of our childhood and young adult years. It would also be Papa and Mama’s home for the rest of their lives.
By this time, it appears that Papa had shifted from his creative writing pursuits into career-oriented documentation to give way to the demands of raising a growing family. Artistic passion had to give in to necessity. In professional life, however, Papa found occasional opportunities to indulge his creative passions. He was often tapped to write speeches for political personalities, and even Presidents of Silliman University. He also maintained a regular radio breakfast program on DYSR, Reflections and Opinions, which he used as a platform to comment on the current state of local and national affairs.
One of my recollections about the early years in the new house was that after dinner on regular occasions, Papa would light a candle close to the wall in their bedroom, close enough to invite shadows against the wall. Then he would take out carefully cut-out cardboard characters and attach them to three-inch lengths of tukog from the kitchen broom, and he would manipulate them in front of the candle towards the wall so that the shadows of these characters would move and seem to have a life of their own. He had animal cut-outs, boxing figures, jousting knights, and a host of other characters to completely mesmerize and entertain me no end. I loved those nights, and frankly, I miss them as I miss Papa.
This ritual of presenting his cardboard shadow shows were my earliest impressions of the artistic bent of Papa. Then, I was too young to appreciate his writings as I had yet to learn to read. I believe, from this experience, Papa had also unknowingly influenced me in developing an interest in creative expressions — in my case, the performing arts which I dabbled in during my younger years. And this legacy in the creative arts has been passed on to my son, Joel, daughters Mara and Kim, my nieces Kylie and Kitten, and even today, to my grandson, Sean David. It is refreshing to note, that somehow, the artistic legacy of Jose Villahermosa Montebon Jr. lives on.
Finally, after all my feeble attempts at a psychoanalysis of Papa’s motivations and inspirations as writer, or my pretensions at a literary criticism of his works, I will simply say that Jose Villahermosa Montebon Jr. was a masterful and brilliant Story Teller. Whether he was telling them with cardboard characters and a candle, or with pen and ink under the tutelage of Edilberto and Edith Tiempo, Papa was simply a storyteller.
So when you read Papa’s stories, don’t get too pre-occupied looking out for the open-ended narrative, the Lyrical style or other technical aspects, tempting as that may be; just enjoy them and immerse yourself in the lives and dreams of his almost-real characters, in those worlds he weaves for them, and appreciate the myriad possibilities he offers you, as he invites you, to co-author with.
