Being a backseat driver on account of my very poor eyesight and depth perception, I’ve been content to let my father take the wheel of our humble Nissan as it crawls its way along Metro Manila’s congested thoroughfares. However, I’ve come to develop a strong dislike for the music being played on the car’s CD and MP3 player because any song that my Dad chooses usually reflects the mood that he is in.
When my Dad is playing instrumental music like the James Last Orchestra or Richard Clayderman, things are still a-okay. When he switches to ABBA, this means the traffic is already getting to him. The Evita soundtrack is a portent for imminent disaster. But when it’s Harry Belafonte, watch out!
Suffice to say, there was one instance when I thought I was going to die with Belafonte singing “Day o, daaay oooo, Daylight come and me wan’ go home” ringing in my ears when we were nearly sideswiped by an SUV that suddenly turned right on EDSA from P. Tuazon as Road Rampaging Father tried to beat the yellow light.
Sometime in August 2012, my Dad and I were returning home to Quezon City from Penaranda, Nueva Ecija, via NLEX. It was around 4pm and the traffic was horrendous so that we were stalled in God knows where, but definitely still very far from the Bocaue toll booths.
At that time, I was already a huge fan of British actor Tom Hiddleston, who played Loki in the movies Thor and The Avengers, and it just so happened that I brought along my CD player and my CDs containing the complete sound files for the BBC miniseries The Hollow Crown.
Since my father was obviously getting bored from the traffic and his ho-hum music (he was playing folk songs performed by the Mabuhay Singers), I asked that we listen instead to my CDs of Henry IV and Henry V. To my delight, he agreed.
Since we were virtually not moving, he even decided to borrow my book of the plays so that he can follow along. It certainly didn’t take long before the both of us became truly immersed in what we were listening to. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my Dad’s lips moving as he silently read along, although he did remark after a few minutes about how excellent Tom’s diction was.
We were at the part wherein Tom was reciting the soliloquy “I know you all” when my Dad started to speak aloud, trying to mimic the actor’s British accent with disastrous results. Imagine yourself speaking with your mouth full of hard candies and you already have an idea on how he sounded like.
“Daaadddy,” I told him with a roll of my eyes. “That’s not how you do it.” I then went on to demonstrate with a perfect accent.
My father looked at me, stunned. “Since when can you recite Shakespeare so perfectly?”
“Years ago, in high school in St. Theresa’s College. You and Mommy never knew it but your one and only played Shylock on stage. Even got a standing ovation.”
“Hmph!” he snorted, visibly envious. “You inherited your acting talents from me.”
Yeah, right! I thought.
We eventually deteriorated into a Shakespeare free-for-all, reciting along with the cast. It was a hoot when we did the tavern scene with Falstaff (played by Simon Russell Beale) and Prince Hal (Hiddleston). Thinking he could beat me, my Dad decided to do Falstaff first, but he couldn’t keep up with Simon’s swift and smooth delivery. To his even greater chagrin, I managed to ape Hiddleston mimicking Jeremy Irons.
“Hmmph!” My Dad snorted again. “You play Falstaff and I play Prince Hal.” Unfortunately for him, he lost when we repeated the scene again. Because I was watching Shakespeare films since I was a child, I already know that the trick to reciting the Bard’s speeches is by using a more fluid, conversational tone
We were at this for around three hours. My Dad would often press the player to move forward and backward to the more interesting tracks so that we were practically jumping along all three plays. He was very passionate when he recited King Henry IV’s berating lines toward his son Hal.
“I know not whether God will have it so, for some displeasing service I have done, That in his secret doom, out of my blood, He’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me,” my Dad declared, his eyes fixed fierily upon me.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Dad?” I asked him suspiciously. “Are you calling me a ‘scourge’?”
Much later, when we were nearing the death scene in Henry IV Part 2, I solemnly intoned, laying a hand over my Dad’s mouth. “My gracious lord, my father. Your sleep is sound indeed. By his gates of breath, there lies a downy feather which stirs not.”
My father was grievously offended. “I’m still breathing! Excuse me! You really want me to die, don’t you?!”
Oh, my Dad was so engrossed in playing Henry IV that he didn’t notice that the cars ahead were already inching forward.
“Thy wish was father, Rory, to that thought.”
“Dad, it’s ‘Harry’, not ‘Rory’. And why are you including me in this play now?”
“I stay too long by thee; I weary thee. Dost thou hunger for mine empty chair, that thou wilt needs invest them with my honors, Before thy hour be ripe?”
“I’d take the driver’s seat in an instant if I knew how to drive. Dad, the traffic’s moving. Now, move along.”
“Oh foolish youth!”
“Dad, you’re spitting saliva on my face! Yuck!”
“CANST THOU NOT FORBEAR ME HALF AN HOUR?”
There was the loud honk of a car horn behind us.
“HEEEH!” My Dad yelled through the window at the irate driver of the Hyundai tailgating us. “My engine stalled! You wait!”
After what seemed like an eternity, we finally inched our way toward the Bocaue Toll Gates. Beyond it was a long, glorious spacious stretch of road. By this time, we were already deep into Henry V. As we neared the pretty cashier, I noticed, to my growing alarm, that there was an evil twinkle in my father’s eye.
No, he wouldn’t! I thought, as he handed his money to the cashier and waited for his change.
As soon as the money was pressed into his hand and the gate was opened, my Dad roared, “ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH, DEAR FRIENDS, ONCE MORE!”
The cashier practically jumped out of her seat, her eyes wide. I slapped an exasperated hand to my face.
Even as we sped onto the, at last, open road, my father continued reciting the speech with bloodthirsty glee. “CRY ‘GOD FOR GARY! ENGLAND! AND SAINT GEORGE!'”
“Dad, it’s ‘Harry’, not ‘Gary’. Now, you’re putting yourself into the play.”
It was when we finally turned onto EDSA from that winding road along Balintawak that my Dad laughingly put in, “That was fun! Let’s do that again the next time we’re stuck in traffic. Make sure you bring along your Shakespeare audiobooks and recordings.”
“I do have Othello,” I remarked.
“Great! I could play Iago. Or maybe even Othello when he kills Desdemona. You can play Desdemona.”
Uh, no thanks, Dad, but I’ll just bring the recording of Cyrano de Bergerac with Kenneth Branagh and Tom Hiddleston, I mused wryly in silence. I don’t want you murdering me in the middle of traffic.
Illustration: Praew Tan
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