Four Students 9

SCHEMER AND OBSERVER

While Rene was walking home, he was already devising a scheme to oust his roommate Sonny from the lodging house. To Rene, it was all a matter of maintaining a certain image. Having a provincial kid like Sonny as his roommate would hardly impress his peer group. As far as he was concerned, one of them had to go.

He opened the door and felt a sudden heaviness in his heart when he saw Sonny sitting in a chair, quietly reading a book.

Silence prevailed.

Rene's thoughts began to wander:

How can I do this tactfully? How do I get rid of this provincial boy? Provincial people like him are famous for being indirect—always suggesting things, beating around the bush—and yet they get offended so easily and take everything personally. How do I tell him he doesn't belong here without ending up in a fight? I was nearly killed last night by that stupid hustler Jaime. I don't have the energy to fight another provincial boy, especially one this big of a provincial.

And indeed, Rene was up against a bigger opponent in Sonny. No matter what he did or what scheme he attempted, Sonny would not budge from a resolve every bit as firm as Rene's. Sonny would not leave the lodging house for reasons only his grandmother, Lola Sabel, fully understood. She had commanded him to stay put and remain close to his roommates. She had told Sonny that staying with them was somehow necessary for 'her' dreams to come true, although exactly how this would happen was something Sonny could not figure out.

The prospect was almost unbearable, but Sonny was certain of one thing: if he left, Lola Sabel would not be happy. Still, remaining in that room felt like standing with both feet over burning coals.

There was something else about Sonny that Rene did not know. Sonny did not fit the provincial stereotype that occupied Rene's thoughts. From his grandmother, he had inherited a blunt, straightforward way of telling people exactly what he thought, regardless of who might get hurt. His honesty came partly from extreme curiosity and partly from innocence.

It was a grave mistake for Maliwalans to assume that provincials were automatically naive, gullible, and subservient. People in Maliwalu sometimes ended up killing one another because of assumptions like that.

"Hi, Sonny."

Rene tossed his books onto the bed, pulled over a steel chair, and began untying his shoes.

"Hi," Sonny answered, watching and observing Rene's every move.

Sonny had thoughts of his own:

Why did he and his group laugh at me this afternoon when I passed them at the university? I admit I lack the "alertness" Jaime, our other roommate, reminded me about yesterday. But if being sophisticated here is simply a matter of speaking properly—the "Maliwalan way"—and knowing how to open a taxicab door properly, those things are easy to learn. Even a child could learn them in a short time.

But who, really, is more amusing between the two of us? He should know how ridiculous he looks trying so desperately to be "in" with the crowd, like rotten meat trying to pass itself off as a fresh cut. I ought to tell him that.

The silence continued, and so did Rene's thoughts.

It must be difficult dealing with a rural boy like this. He might misinterpret my suggestions—which, of course, are really just my way of telling him there's a nicer place somewhere else. I have to weigh the consequences.

First, he might become upset by the truth. And the truth hurts. Imagine discovering how poorly the university population regards you because of your clothes, your style, your mannerisms, and your complete ignorance of Maliwala's latest fads. All of that is surely flushing him down the toilet of society. And I can't clean him up. I don't have the time.

Second, what if he realizes I'm trying to get rid of him and becomes furious? What if he hires one of those Sparrow Units from his town—wherever that is—to assassinate me in broad daylight? Poor me. What an unglamorous way to die.

Third, what if he does the opposite and tells me to leave instead? Where would I go? Certainly not to one of those lodging houses across the Pasig River! Gosh, how did I end up crossing paths with this provincial boy? He'd better not mess up my plan.

My plan!

I have a personal agenda to carry out, and he isn't part of it. No way, José. I'm going to climb the social ladder as fast as I can and build the right connections. Then I'll use those connections, along with a solid background in Economics and Political Science, to amass wealth. Once I have money, power and fame will follow. I worked construction jobs under the scorching sun for this plan. I endured all of that for this future. And now... this provincial boy has to get out of the way.

I'll push him out tactfully if I can. But when push comes to shove...

What would my friends say if they knew this boy was sharing a room with me? That I have no taste? No class?

Across the room, Sonny was engaged in an equally intense examination of Rene.

What, indeed, is the true nature of Rene? After his fight with Jaime last night, and after acting like rotten meat this afternoon, what exactly is he up to? In my province, someone like him would be called 'nagmumurang kamias'. But is simple insecurity about his age his only excuse? His reaction to Jaime last night revealed an insulting and malicious mind. Is that part of the same insecurity? Poor Jaime. He was accused of prostitution. But is it true, or was it simply a false accusation?

Sonny could no longer concentrate on the lines in his book. His attention kept returning to Jaime and Rene, his two roommates. The fourth student had not yet arrived.

His thoughts eventually shifted to Lola Sabel.

She always seemed to have answers to whatever perplexed him.

"There is always a root cause for everything," he remembered her saying. *"When you see a tree and notice only its fruit, you have a shallow understanding of things. When you look at a tree, do you also look at its bark, its branches, and its leaves? That is what is missing among the youth today. They are too naive, too innocent of the ins and outs, the whys and hows of the world around them. They are content to learn and understand things only superficially.

"Do you, my dear Sonny, always try to put yourself in another person's shoes? Do you try your best to adapt your mind to another person's way of thinking? Are you capable of becoming anything to any of them? Or have you joined those young people who waste their time only on the who, what, and where of life? Only when you begin asking why and how will you truly understand—and create—so many things in this world."

Only Lola Sabel, Sonny thought, would be capable of understanding the intricacies of Rene's heart.

Sonny stood up, leaned against his bed, and watched Rene change clothes. Rene was completely uninhibited. He slipped into his shorts and undershirt, then sat beside the table, which held a single empty flower vase surrounded by piles of books.

Perhaps to demonstrate to Sonny what it took to become a true city dweller, Rene deliberately left his locker wide open, displaying dozens of T-shirts and pants, bottles of cologne, and various other supposedly manly accessories.

In Maliwalu, such possessions could supposedly reveal the great divide between two kinds of students: the lower and the upper, the rural and the urban, the provincial boy and the city boy.

But were accessories sufficient criteria? Were language and mannerisms reliable standards?

Rene pulled out a Marlboro, opened a book in what he apparently considered a "classy" manner, stretched his legs across the bed, and whistled a rock-and-roll tune while pretending to read a magazine.

Is that all?* Sonny wondered. *Where are the mild, well-bred manners taught by generations long ago, the ones Lola Sabel always emphasized?

The questions reverberated in his mind while Lola Sabel's voice seemed both near and impossibly far away.

"Sonny," Rene finally began, "have you heard about that nice coed apartment across the street where pretty girls roam the corridors at midnight?"

"No."

"You should visit it sometime. I'm sure you'd like it. I'd transfer there myself if it weren't for all this self-control I'm trying so hard to practice. Girls are my weakness, you see. I'm sure I'd never graduate if I lived there. I'd be awake twenty-four hours a day. Those legs, that delicate skin... mmm, *muy delicioso*."

He winked at Sonny.

"If you're insinuating that I should transfer there, no, I won't."

Sonny was always blunt.

"Why?"

"My grandmother told me to stay here. That's why."

"But, Sonny, you don't see legs and skin like that in Banqueruan. Of course, I'm not trying to throw you out, am I? I just want you to experience the different colors of Manila. That's what rural boys love about the city. Girls are the best showcase."

"Are you teasing me? And how did you decide what we rural boys want?"

"Of course not. I'm trying to help you."

Rene almost wished he could simply blurt out the truth.

"Well," Sonny said, "if what you're really trying to tell me is that you want me to leave this lodging house because you're ashamed to have me in this room, then let me confess something: I'm equally disgusted and ashamed of you. I can't stand living with you either. The only reason I'm staying is because my grandmother wants me here, for reasons only she understands.

"Do you think I enjoy staying here because I've been blessed with the company of your fake, classy city-boy act? No. If you're proud of your accessories and outfits, my Lola could send me truckloads of those if I ever wanted them. If you don't want to be associated with a rural kid like me, then I don't want to be associated with an old cowboy desperately pretending to be a punk like you.

"I'm sorry, Rene. I'm staying here as long as I want, as long as my grandmother tells me to, and as long as the landlord accepts my monthly payments—even if every girl in that apartment across the street runs naked through the corridors at midnight."

Rene could not believe it.

The madness.

The bluntness.

The impertinence!

"Sonny, I don't like the way your tongue is moving."

"It's probably being activated by the foul odor coming from your mouth."

Now that everything was out in the open, Rene had little choice but to admit the truth.

"You're right. I don't like seeing you in this room."

"This isn't your room!"

"I was the first one to occupy it, excuse me."

"I've already paid my rent, and there's nothing you can do about that."

"You son of a bitch. You'd better leave, or else—"

"Or else what?"

"This is the city. My territory."

"Are you threatening me?"

"You could end up dead in the Pasig River, you know."

"Do it. And I assure you, machine guns will blow your guts out before you fall dead into a nine-foot-deep hole you've dug for your own final resting place."

"Sonny... Sonny... don't push me to my limit. I'm offering you a deal. Get out, and I'll find you a very nice room somewhere else."

"Rene, my decision is final. If you can't stand me, then you leave."

"I won't leave! I was the first occupant of this room. What would my friends say—that you, some stupid rural kid, threw me out?"

"Well, then, it's settled. Since neither of us is leaving, we'll both stay right here. Now let's end this conversation and let me finish my reading. You can go to sleep if you want."

"I won't take this!"

The heated exchange continued. Ten minutes might have passed, perhaps more, before the door suddenly opened.

Jaime stumbled inside.

He was obviously drunk.

"Halt!" he shouted when he saw Rene and Sonny on the verge of beating each other up.

Neither of them paid him any attention. Who was Jaime, after all, to stop them?

Jaime staggered toward the bedroom and suddenly vomited.

The sound immediately caught Sonny's attention. Fearing something was wrong, he abandoned his argument with Rene and rushed into the room. Jaime was leaning over the sink, sweating heavily and twitching.

Sonny reached out to steady him, but Jaime shoved his hand away.

Then Jaime began to cry openly.

Sonny stood there, staring at him.

The longer he lived in that lodging house, the less he understood the students he was sharing it with. Rene, with his schemes, pretensions, and obsession with status. Jaime, with his secrets, his drinking, and now his tears. And somewhere beyond the room was still the mysterious fourth student, yet to arrive.

Sonny was becoming more and more baffled by all of them.

And he was getting angry.

Burning angry.
2026-09-19 23:53:39
4students

Four Students 8

RENE

Rene chose to major in Economics, with a minor in Political Science, because of his hunger for power, politics, and money. Who in Maliwalu didn’t dream of those things? The best way to learn the tricks of the trade, he believed, was through higher education—specifically at Maliwalu State University, the country’s most prestigious institution.

State U didn’t just teach theory. It embodied the reality of social stratification. Maliwalu itself was a perfect example of what people often described in discussions about developing nations: a rigid divide between the poor, the middle class, and the elite. There were the educated and the illiterate, the proletariat and the bourgeoisie—each group existing in its own world, yet constantly aware of the others.

To borrow a line from Dickens, it was the best of times and the worst of times. Maliwalu was both Paris and London—alive with all kinds of people and social classes. But unlike those cities, it lacked a culture of independent thinking. Instead, its citizens prided themselves on imitation. They tried hard—sometimes too hard—to look, speak, and behave like New Yorkers, Londoners, or Parisians.

For Maliwalans, visiting the Eiffel Tower or London Bridge was a badge of status. Meanwhile, foreigners who came to Maliwalu were often seen as either criminals escaping justice, missionaries tending to the poor—or worse. Still, many locals didn’t mind. As one student casually put it, “Let them take care of our poor. I’m leaving for New York after graduation anyway. Better to be a New Yorker than a Maliwalan.”

This was the essence of class in Maliwalu. While the urban poor rallied for better housing in Tokando, the wealthy expanded their mansions in Follows Park. The middle class lived paycheck to paycheck, stuck in place. The poor got poorer, the rich got richer, and the middle class remained trapped in between.

“We’re living in a capitalist society,” professors would remind their sociology students. “Inequality is expected. What matters is economic growth.”

But the benefits of that growth never reached the poor. International observers pointed this out—London magazines wrote about it, Paris analysts criticized it. Human rights violations, they said, were part of the system.

At State U, social class wasn’t just tolerated—it was reinforced. Even the campus building reflected it. Each floor carried its own social meaning.

The first floor belonged to the upper class. It was the perfect stage for showcasing the latest fashion, flaunting wealth, and speaking in a hybrid language—a mix of English and Tagalog, twisted into something unrecognizable. From there, students could watch everyone entering the university and judge them instantly—based on clothes, looks, and mannerisms.

The criteria were shallow, but absolute. Anything Western was considered stylish; anything local was dismissed as cheap. These students—small, brown-skinned, yet dressed in punk-inspired outfits—desperately tried to resemble Western celebrities. They wanted to look like movie stars, like Tom Cruise or Madonna.

“Come on, man, you’ve got to be in style,” one of them once told Sonny. “Those bell-bottoms? That’s so outdated.”

Hollywood was their standard of perfection. They dreamed of becoming supermodels, beauty queens, or rock stars—anything that could catapult them onto the global stage. They followed celebrity culture obsessively, even admiring the extravagance and corruption of political elites.

They were modern versions of Doña Victorina—imitators who masked their identity in hopes of being mistaken for something else. They wore heavy makeup, experimented with flashy hairstyles, and covered their natural features with colored contact lenses. They spoke in borrowed slang—“damn it,” “oh shit,” “son of a—”—as if language alone could transform them.

They were the children of politicians, businessmen, doctors, and lawyers. With their wealth and appearance, they felt superior. Anyone who didn’t fit their mold became a target of ridicule.

Rene belonged to this group—but for very different reasons.

He carried a deep resentment toward his father, Germiliano Santos—known simply as “Germs” to his American employer, Robert Clarke.

After World War II, Clarke had acquired vast lands in Maliwalu through favorable agreements. Germs worked as his caretaker, managing the land and sharing in its profits. Over time, Germs became wealthy himself, acquiring trucks and businesses. By all standards, he had succeeded.

Yet to Rene, his father remained a slave.

Despite his wealth, Germs never shed his subservient behavior. Even when Clarke began treating him as an equal, calling him “Mr. Santos,” Germs continued to bow, laugh, and act like a man desperate to please.

As a teenager, Rene couldn’t understand it. Why couldn’t his father step out of the American’s shadow? Why cling to a mindset of submission?

Everything changed one day when Clarke visited and Germs proudly declared that Rene would someday take his place in their partnership. To Rene, it wasn’t praise—it was humiliation. A future as his father’s replacement felt like a sentence.

From that moment on, he rebelled. He abandoned his studies and threw himself into drinking, drugs, and reckless living. Eventually, he was expelled from school.

His final year of high school was spent at an obscure institution, much to his father’s embarrassment. His allowance was cut off. Their relationship deteriorated completely.

Not long after, Germs died of a heart attack. He left nothing to Rene. Everything went to his younger son, Ramon—the obedient one. Rene’s mother remained indifferent, more concerned with maintaining her social image than her family.

Rene grew up determined to become the opposite of his father. He wanted to be like Robert Clarke—the powerful, the dominant, the one in control. He vowed never to be a servant.

For six years, he worked relentlessly. Construction jobs, hauling lumber through mountain roads, selling anything he could—he did it all. His goal was simple: earn enough money to buy his way into education, influence, and ultimately, the upper class.

He believed that adopting Clarke’s mindset—aggressive, assertive, even ruthless—was the key. In a country built on imitation, it wouldn’t be difficult.

That was how Sonny first noticed him—standing among the upper-class group on the first floor.

Rene smoked a Marlboro cigarette, looking like a caricature of the Marlboro Man—an “Oriental” version of a Western icon. At twenty-six, he stood out awkwardly among the younger students, yet tried hard to blend in.

When Sonny walked past, dressed in simple clothes from a flea market, the group stared. Their laughter echoed long after he had climbed to the third floor.

Sonny paused, wondering who looked more ridiculous—himself, or Rene trying to belong where he didn’t quite fit.

Sonny belonged to no class. He moved through campus indifferent to judgment.

Back on the first floor, the group mocked him openly.

“How would you rate that guy?” one asked.

“Negative ten,” another replied.

When someone pointed out that Sonny was Rene’s roommate, the ridicule intensified.

“Don’t worry,” Rene said casually. “I’ll get rid of him. He’s got money—but no class.”

Laughter erupted—until it was interrupted by the arrival of Minnie.

She was stunning—tall, elegant, with the body of a model and the face of an angel. The pride of State U, she had just won Maliwalu Supermodel and was preparing to compete in the United States.

The boys immediately shifted their attention.

“Minnie, you’re a perfect ten. Sit with us.”

She smiled, fully aware of every eye on her.

Their admiration, however, quickly shifted again when Rose arrived—a recent beauty queen. The two women exchanged polite but insincere greetings, masking their rivalry.

Rose bragged openly about a date with a wealthy man from one of Maliwalu’s elite families. She spoke dramatically, romanticizing the encounter, dismissing studies as trivial.

Minnie listened, forcing a smile, but inside she felt something else—disgust.

Not just for Rose.

But for herself as well.
2026-07-07 00:06:06
4students