Salvador (Doy) Laurel

No, this time I didn’t cry as I did when Ninoy Aquino died. Maybe the times were different. But I was just as stunned, as shocked and staggered when early Wednesday the news broke that Doy Laurel had died just hours before. Doy dead? It was simply unbelievable. Just a little over a year ago, the man was full of life, handsome as ever with a mind that hustled and bustled like a rake over a clump of leaves. He had just published his latest book – the title of which escape me right now – and there we were in his study peering at oncoming events with great intensity.

Doy did not hesitate to agree with me the entire system had to go.

An imprisoned Joseph Estrada symbolized a regime afflicted with terminal rot. President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo had just announced that, by the grace of God, she had abandoned her plans to run for the presidency in 2004. She too at the time realized the futility of it all. GMA was unable to stare down a system that devoured her will and took out the little that was left of her moral armor. Of course, GMA changed her mind later on, a reversal that now haunts her like the ghost of Banquo. Things were simply beginning to fall apart. What could we do?

Doy brought out the possibility FPJ (Fernando Poe Jr.) would enter the presidential race. Even at that time, we had the foreboding FPJ would come in. And coming in, he would scramble the whole presidential shebang. Would he do the country any good? And since the odds even then favored an FPJ victory May 10, 2004, would our Freedom Force group extend our assistance to save the republic? Or was the republic already doomed? We figured the system would soon come completely apart.

We were right. It is coming apart now like a Chinook helicopter hit by a Stinger missile. The self-anointed messiahs are coming out, a dime a dozen.

It’s a pity, a terrible pity Doy Laurel is no longer around. He would have made a difference if he were, passionate nationalist that he was, a Laurel with brains and balls, a Batangueño on a vivid and livid patriotic romp, a great friend and associate of Ninoy Aquino.

Doy, why didn’t you tell us you were gravely ill? Why did you hide this from us? Why did you just disappear, first to Baguio where we couldn’t reach you and the next thing we knew you were already in Stanford, California, the life ebbing out of you in agonizing bits and pieces till finally the white-bearded man with the scythe gently grabbed you by the arm, and the light exploded? And also the darkness?

And yet only some time ago, you were describing Ferdinand Marcos to me as you – on Macoy’s death bed request – visited him in Honolulu. And there, you narrated, you saw the dictator shriveled to flesh and bone, his face shrunk to a grisly coconut head, his voice a lisp if it was not a croak. In effect, the dying dictator was thanking the Laurels through you for saving him from a possible death sentence when as a young UP ROTC cadet, he was accused of murdering his father’s political rival Julio Nalundasan in Batac, Ilocos Sur.

Yes, the Laurel clan for sometime supported the dictatorship, thinking they could divert him to a democratic political pathway. But Ferdinand Marcos instead, as you narrated to me, took the low road, the road of betrayal, the road that glittered with gold, and also with slime and crime. As your elder brother Pepito Laurel – whom you loved very much – said then: Under the Marcoses the lights went out all over the country while they blazed only in Malacañang with Imelda holding forth like Marie Antoinette at the Palais de Versailles pinning diamonds on the wall.

I suppose the country will always remember Doy Laurel for having ceded the presidency to Cory Aquino when he could have stepped into Malacañang himself in 1986. After Ninoy’s death, I chanced upon Doy again in his Mandaluyong study. He was poring over books stuffed into layers of shelves, many of them books authored by his father, Jose P. Laurel Sr. His father he idolized.

Doy had organized the UNIDO, the only solid opposition party in the Philippines. He poured a lot of blood, sweat and tears into the effort. The snap presidential elections were just around the corner. Doy was convinced this was it. Finally the Fates were calling on him. Destiny. The laurel leaves of the gentle Caesars beckoned. He would clobber Marcos in the snap presidential elections, that was for sure.

Doy told me he was setting up his priorities as president, and had given law and order top urgency. He was alternately pensive and wrought with emotion. The presidential job ahead was to be tackled with intelligence, wisdom but always with courage. For courage was his hallmark as it was that of the Laurels. May bayag sa utak, may utak sa bayag.

But it was not to be.

The Church and its Knight Templars with Jaime Cardinal Sin lifting the chalice on high sought to convince the widow of Ninoy, Cory Aquino, to run for the presidency. Despite a Cory who slammed so many doors against the move, she eventually relented. It was time to convince Doy Laurel to give way. Poor Doy. If he had stood fast, he could have become president. He had the party, the prestige, the national network, the resources, the formidable name recall, the integrity, the stentorian will to succeed, the guts of a Turkish battalion. The nation was stirring at his fingertips.

But how could he go against Cory Aquino, the widow of his best friend? How could he resist Jaime Cardinal Sin? The princes and paladins of the Church? And big business?

The Batangueño buckled. And Batangueños don’t buckle at all. They have rites of courage in Batangas, fists that beat a tattoo, a balisong that pierces the heart cleanly, the forest snarl before which all beasts beat a retreat. It hurt. It was soul-searing, seeing this particular Batangueño give up his dream, his obsession, surrender his pride. But Doy loved his country dearly. He sheathed his political sword. Like Sir Walter Raleigh, he stood the greatest test of a gentleman, laid down his coat and gave way to Cory.

It was the supreme test of the patriot. But then, why did he have to be the one to suffer? It was like his father – a nationalist immortal – gulping down his pride and agreeing to lead the Philippines under the Japanese Occupation. Manuel Quezon, Sergio Osmeña and the rest would seek sanctuary in America. General Masaharu Homma and the soldier hordes of Imperial Japan were advancing on Manila. Somebody had to hold the fort.

Was that the lot of the Laurels?

But we swerve. Our narration will have to depict Doy tout entier (the whole Doy). He was so many things else. He was the compleat politician, the compleat gentleman, the compleat romantic and lover if I may mention that. His lust for life was Andre Gide’s "J’aime tout, tout m’etonne, tout m’interesse!" I love everything. Everything surprises me and interests me. He was handsome with a swashbuckling sometimes roguish smile, and the girls would swoon at his approach. Doy loved to drink, tell tales, joke, quote the classics. Most of all, he loved to sing.

He introduced me to lambanog, a drink with a mule’s kick, always in ample supply at their Mandaluyong residence. And under the giddy influence of lambanog, he and I often sang French songs he doted on like C’est Si Bon, La Vie en Rose, Les Feuilles Mortes. He had a great voice, and if Doy had applied himself to it, he would have been a popular tenor. When he was foreign affairs secretary, every foreign ambassador in town would have to sing at his soirées. Doy was Mario Lanza.

Doy was a regular at the weekly Friday get-together of the Foreign Correspondents’ Association of the Philippines (FOCAP) during martial rule. It was the only place in town were hardy – or was it foolhardy? – opposition leaders like S. P. Lopez and Bono Adaza would down the grape and hurl invectives at the Marcoses. Pepito, former Speaker Jose Laurel, was with Doy at one time. And, boy, could he belch fire! Pepito when tipsy called Ferdinand Marcos all sorts of names in Tagalog, English and Spanish.

Waiters at the Hyatt Regency were petrified as Pepito took aim at the dictator with steaming four-letter words. Nobody but a Laurel could do that at the time. The whole nation was in fear. Baldomero Olivera, PLDT big shot and ex-journalist, simply joked the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, and that was the line between Ferdie and Imelda. In no time at all, Marcos’ carabinieri came and jailed Toto Olivera, who was just trying to be funny.

Once while about to enplane for America, Doy was held up at the airport. A pistol was "found" in his valise. Doy immediately knew he was being hounded. I advised him to stay put, resist arrest if arrest there would be, and agree to be imprisoned. I had a scoop. He laughed off the whole thing, and eventually they did not dare touch him. That was Doy. He lived a charmed life. He was "arrested" when he single-handedly led a noise barrage, but again he spit out Batangueño bile at the dictator’s armed gentry. And they froze. And gently told him they were just doing their duty.

The only thing Doy Laurel lacked was a black patch over one eye. Israel’s Moshe Dayan wore that patch devilishly to perfection. Doy, my dear friend, why did you have to go?