Chapter 1413 - The Debut

As if an electric shock had passed through the room, every gaze turned toward the door. There stood a tall, imposing guest, dressed like a fashionable young gentleman from Europe. Over an embroidered waistcoat and sumptuous sash, he wore a dark gray velvet pleated coat. He wore no starched ruff; instead, the outline of his dark coat was set off by glittering gold braiding that extended from his collar past the shirt ruffles, all the way down to the tops of his stockings. A small section of spotless white silk gloves peeked from his pocket. His right hand nonchalantly held a plumed hat, while his left, rings gleaming, rested on the hilt of a gem-studded saber.

The guests whispered among themselves about the newcomer's identity, history, attire, and all manner of related rumors. Even the gaudy medal decorated with ribbons on his chest was rumored to be a Patani Gem Medal bestowed by Queen Raja Bungsar—when in fact it was nothing more than an utterly ordinary cross issued by the Society of Jesus.

Vince Lando squinted as he stepped into the great hall. Hundreds of thick whale-oil candles bloomed like jade flowers, and their light reflecting off the whitewashed walls momentarily dazzled him. Manila, like most cities of this era, was completely ruled by darkness at night. Even the best inn in the city lit his room with nothing more than a dim, flickering coconut-oil lamp. The torch cages on the fortress and the torches along the main roads were mere stars in the night sky.

Only now, in this brightly lit drawing room, did he feel as if he had returned to Lingao, returned to the civilized world—even stepped onto the stage of a great metropolis. The show was about to begin. The lights had been lit; the curtain was about to rise; the Count of Fananovoua, Vincenzo Lando, was about to make his formal debut.

The Count possesses the bearing of a conqueror. In martial attire, standing at the door, he surveyed the assembled guests like Emperor Trajan atop his column. And when he stepped into the mayor's drawing room, it was as if Hernán Cortés were entering the palace of Montezuma II. Pretty-boy handsomeness was alien to the Count, yet he was surely a bewitching lover. His body was as solid as a steel frame, without a single soft spot in his entire silhouette. When he stood in the great hall and inclined his head slightly, even the proudest bull in the bullring would have felt ashamed. The profile of his head called to mind the image of Augustus on ancient Roman coins; every line so sharply defined. His forehead was very round, his chin quite charming, and his Adam's apple large—all of which reinforced my impression of his bold virility. The Count walked to the center of the hall, paid his respects to the mayor, and kissed his wife with great style. The tender pose of his lips as he bestowed the kiss, and his smiling gaze, added a touch of elegance to the Count's heroic bearing, making him at once a legendary hero in the eyes of men and a perfect gentleman in the hearts of women.

This lady of colonial high society wrote down the Count of Fananovoua's debut in beautiful handwriting in her diary, then hid it in a secret compartment in her vanity drawer—where it remained until it became spoils of the Imperial forces that captured Manila. A member of the Planning Institute's Special Search Team carefully opened the drawer, hoping to find something of value inside.

As is often the case when eyes are blinded by emotion and distort the truth, the former mercenary Vince Lando could hardly concern himself with how some lovestruck lady might describe his gentlemanly bearing. When he very ungentlemanly extricated himself from the overly enthusiastic embrace and kiss of Señora Isabella—the mayor's wife—he was nearly suffocated by the pungent mixture of greasy body odor and perfume emanating from her. No sooner had he escaped one overheated embrace than he found himself surrounded by a large crowd of enthusiastic people and curious eyes.

"Sir, Count sir," Customs Officer Don Basilio pushed through the crowd to greet him first, "what a lively occasion! Do you enjoy the bullfighting here? Those brave knights are absolutely splendid, don't you think?"

The Count glanced contemptuously at Don Basilio. This fellow was the first colonial official he had encountered in Manila; the fawning smile on that cunning, sinister face always reminded him of that detestable character of the same name in Rossini's opera.

"Señor Basilio is quite right," he said in a half-mocking tone. "The weather here is most extraordinary. As for bullfighting, I regret that all my military experience has been acquired in battle against the enemies of Christendom. If His Eminence the Archbishop should happen to discern that the local cattle harbor pagan or heretical beliefs, I expect it would not then be too late to seek instruction from the knights on the art of fighting savage bulls."

A ripple of suppressed laughter ran through the guests. The customs officer had never been popular, and everyone was delighted to see him rebuffed by the distinguished newcomer.

"Oh, Your Lordship, Count, pay no attention to him," the hostess came to Vince's rescue. "Señor Basilio is very clever, especially when dealing with the Chinamen. But precisely because he spends all day dealing with Chinamen, he no longer knows how to speak like a civilized person." Señora Isabella took the Count's arm amid envious glances and chattered on: "Having twelve soldiers ride around the ring on horseback, waving lances at a poor buffalo, watching it slowly bleed to death—it's too horrible. I can't bear to watch." She took out a handkerchief and covered her eyes in mourning for the unfortunate bull.

"Local water buffalo are unsuitable for bullfighting," said an elegant gentleman. "What a pity we don't have Castilian bulls here!"

"In terms of size and agility, the water buffalo here are in no way inferior to any breed from the Peninsula!" another immediately retorted.

Just as the two were about to have a small argument over which cattle were best for bullfighting, Señora Isabella had already led her distinguished guest away from the debate. She urged him to take the seat of honor, but the Count firmly declined, choosing instead a seat with his back to the window. All the shutters had been thrown open, and the evening breeze, carrying the scent of jasmine and catalpa, blew through the stifling hall.

Vince sighed inwardly. Maintaining an aristocratic air while properly dressed in this sweat-drenching heat was truly an ordeal. The nighttime temperature was nearly thirty degrees Celsius, and he was wearing a full suit of wool! Yet as far as the eye could see, every banquet guest had gone all-out to preserve their dignity. Every gentleman wore a crisp wool formal suit with a stiffly starched ruff collar. The ladies hid beneath hats stuffed with peacock feathers, or concealed their faces behind veils of various colors.

"Won't you try some braised oxtail, dear Count?" It was the mayor himself. His appearance was the complete opposite of his wife's—white-haired, thin and lean, as if Manila's scorching weather had dried him out. "This is from that fine bull defeated this afternoon."

"Thank you, Your Excellency. But I must venture to inform you that, despite your gracious hospitality, I must leave before the gates close. Otherwise, when the great bell strikes twenty-two, I won't be able to return to my lodgings. My application for a special pass has never been approved. As I understand it, His Majesty's decrees do not permit foreigners without approval to spend the night within Manila's walls."

"The special pass and residence permit must both be signed by the Governor personally. Of course, your leaving the city won't be a problem," the mayor said, looking somewhat embarrassed. "With a written order from the Commander of Fort Santiago, you may pass through the gates at any time." The fortress commander was a grizzled old colonel. He merely nodded at Vince in response, then buried his head in his plate, devoted to chomping and gulping. His graying whiskers were soaking in the plate, splashing gravy everywhere.

"If you don't mind, we could arrange lodgings for you here. My wife and I—as long as Your Lordship would deign to give us instructions—would do everything in our power to serve you."

"Your Excellency, I am most grateful for your kind offer," Vince signaled for a Tagalog servant to take away the untouched plate of braised oxtail. He picked up a glass of sherry. "But imposing upon you would weigh upon my conscience. I have already found lodgings in the Parian (Note), and my luggage is stored there."

"Good heavens! You're actually living among those filthy, savage heathen Chinamen—those wicked idol-worshippers, smugglers, thieves, gamblers, and sodomites! They're experts at petty theft and harboring criminals! I'm afraid you'll never see your luggage again!" exclaimed one gentleman who had apparently been buggered by a Chinese man.

(Note) The Parian was the Chinese quarter outside Manila at that time, now known as Chinatown.