EXILIUM REX

Chapter 3

A passing reconnoiter of the huge quarters leads Mr. Apostol to assume that the mystery man must be a retired high-ranking government official (and presumably a close associate of his boss at the Special Display Section of the National Archives and Museum) who probably had nothing better to do with his gratuity pay than to watch it grow at usurious and unpredictable rates. The receiving room, a place of office which appears to be originally a holding room for the more important guests of the house big enough for any indoor entertainment (like an exclusive game of cards, perhaps); but, now, appear converted into a half-panopticon, half-public library. It looks more like the epitomy of a universe of data bereft of any statistical presence. Only the small humming Acer notebook in the middle of the circumferential desk serves proof that one could sit and still be able to keep in touch – ideally – with just about everything else in mortal sight. From one particular corner, however, Mr. Apostol notices an equipment which more or less appears of the medical kind.

Meanwhile, at the other side of where the airconditioner is a finely papered wall with diverse floral accentuations which hung and exhibited for all to view an independently lit, fairly large and colorfully-rendered embossed reproduction of a foreign coat-of-arms. Not unlike the corporate seal of the capital city itself. A rendition of a bit smaller size, however, of a finely reproduced 1568 painting by Dutch renaissance Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Parable of the Blind, also hangs asymmetrical at the left of the coat-of-ams. Curiosity of the online netbook and other things besides is about to lift the young man from the confines of his seat when…

Slam.

The nameless host returns, curtly apologizes to Mr. Apostol and, without feeling the gap of any absence, immediately proposes something to the effect only he seems to know would be currently most desired.

“Mr. Apostol, I am sorry for being this rude. At this point, I believe I am bound by time – and how much dose of it I still have – to take something from you urgently. And the same is true of me to you.”

Mr. Apostol looks laden with questions more than anything else, but choose to keep mum.

As if on cue, the old shadowy figure hands a long green folder he took seconds ago from the central pile on the disorderly table and prods Mr. Apostol to read the supposed document inside. Mr. Apostol does so in a somewhat routinary fashion; thinking, perhaps, that he should be signing some paperwork to the effect that he would be turning over the item, one piece: usb drive, in fairly good condition. However, the thirty-three year old liaison officer slightly breaks his lips ajar, stunned speechless, it seems, at what he is presently perusing.

The silhouette of his host walks over the main curtains of a window fronting the entire living room c*m office quarters and deftly parts them. An outpouring of the 11am sunlight shots through sense of sight of both characters, temporarily blinding them. As Mr. Apostol squints to recover vision – and, apparently, sanity, he again hears the now more steady and now more recognizable voice of his infamous host.

“If we cannot change the unknown future, Mr. Apostol, we shall have to change the known past.”

Argumentum ad baculum. The fallacy committed when one makes an appeal to force to bring about the acceptance of a conclusion.

The clerk trembles. For, after a decade, this would only be the second opportunity that he would have to hear this cursed vow again. In the dizzying array of nervous silence, the mystery man’s soliloquy starts to float and to disperse everywhere with its ominous mix of emotional ripples, before being interrupted anon by the brusque speaker himself.

Mr. Apostol struggles to get his voice out, “Prof… Prof… Professor Baylon?”

“Before I forget, Mr. Apostol. I think I would have my flash drive now, thank you. By the way, you do own a cellphone, don’t you?”

*

3:34pm. Same day.

The afternoon traffic surge is fast approaching its uncontrollable pitch. Sensing the great probability of a misappointment, the driver of the blue Volkswagen humpback immediately swerves to a full stop at the parking area of the corner Seven-Eleven near the Arroceros LRT station but kept its engine running.

Inside, the blaupunkt blares out its flash report: “… And for our breaking news… PAG-ASA reported that – as of two o’clock p.m. – the low-pressure area spotted at the eastern side of the archipelago has just entered Philippine Area of Responsibility in the general direction of Mega-Manila and has intensified into a tropical storm nicknamed ‘Trionium’… landfall… ninety percent probability… by Saturday… midnight…”

Still inside, female editor c*m news reporter Shol Mari Torres of the Rattler Daily News starts to think of her next set of actions.

She knows she has to do this, but she has to hurry.

Then the clouds over the urban horizon are beginning to swell.

Quickly, Shol Mari turns the engine off, gets out of the car and locks it. Half-walking, half-running towards the station’s entrance, questions are raised within the circus of her mind as light droplets of rain prick the sunburned side of her forearms.

“Will he still be at Greenwich, Pedro Gil? Will his information be reliable? My God, I

hope he’s not taking me on one of his boat rides to nowhere… ay, s**t! But, what if he

says is true… How would it be connected to Fiscal Baylon?”

As is her habit when stressed out or excited, she snorts.

Slovening time passes.

Well after the twenty-minute LRT train ride, Shol Mari re-appears to clamber down the winding stairway of the Pedro Gil LRT station. As she reaches the final steps leading to the damp avenue sidewalk filled with colorum vendors, a middle-aged man wearing a Barangay Ginebra cap and dark Taiwan-made jacket blocks her path. Immediately she stops dead on her tracks and eyes the human barrier with an elicited calm.

“Ms. Gemma Arguelles?”

“Ye-yes?”

The dab of flesh at the tip of the woman’s nose begins to redden.

“Ma’am, please come with me to the hospital. Your tiyuhin, there had been an accident…”