power for granted? I mean, we refer to it constantly. We use it interchangeably with privilege as if they were the same thing." She seemed completely unruffled. Her voice was serene, almost narcotized, and nearly hypnotic. "But they aren't the same thing at all. Right now, I have a kind of power that you don't. That makes me privileged, compared to you."
"How so?"
"If I say jump, you will ask how high. All because I have the gun."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
She ignored the implicit disagreement. "But that's not all. It makes us different, having power. It also puts you on the defensive, the same way knowledge does. Knowledge, too, is a kind of power."
"You think so?"
"I know it. Take the fact that you really don't know why you're here. Not the truck I don't mean that. I mean Manila. The Philippines. I think maybe that's why I took off your handcuffs. You are a kind of innocent. You're like a child, somehow. Most things are so simple for you, and yet some things are so complex you don't even try to understand them. But you don't care. For you, they amount to the same thing. You see something in black and white, or you don't see it at all. And you don't even realize that."
Bolan listened to the laboring engine for a while. He could feel it throbbing through the floorboards. From the strain, and the slight imbalance he felt, he assumed they were heading uphill now, and had been for a while. Slowly, perhaps, but certainly.
Finally he took up the gauntlet. "If you understand so much, why don't you explain things to me? Show me where I am wrong and you are right."
"You think I can't, don't you?"
"I don't think anything. Just do it, if you can."
"All right... let me tell you about your Mr. Charles Harding. How about that for a beginning?"
"Good a place as any, I suppose."
"Do you know why he's here, in the Philippines?"
"No."
"Is that why you were following him, to find out?"
"Who said I was following him?"
"Mr. Belasko, don't try to obscure the obvious. I know what I know. And I know you were following him. I know you came here from Los Angeles, just like Mr. Harding. But, unlike you, I also know why he is here."
He kept calculating the odds on overpowering the young woman, but they never changed, and he didn't like them. And he was getting interested, in spite of himself.
"Go on," he said.
"How much do you know about my country?"
"Enough."
"You remember the Huks? Hukbalahap? You don't seem old enough."
"I know of them, yes."
"And the New People's Army? You know of them, too?"
"Yes."
"You know why they existed, the Huks, the NPA? Because of people like your Mr. Harding."
"Stop calling him that. He's not "my" Mr. Harding. I don't know who the hell he belongs to, but it sure as hell isn't me."
"That's the American way, isn't it, Mr. Belasko? Let people be exploited, reap the rewards of that exploitation and disavow its architects. As long as you have two cars and three televisions, who cares about people who have to walk and who have no radio? "Fuck 'em," isn't that the American attitude?"
"Lady, if there's an attitude around here, it's yours, and I'm sick of it. You don't know jackshit about me. Talk about black and white. If there's a blacker black and a whiter white than the colors you're seeing, I don't know where the hell they might be."
"Of course, I knew you'd get around to that, sooner or later. The oppressor always blames the oppressed. Resentment is the privilege of the overclass..."
The truck lurched suddenly, but she pushed on.
"You always..."
"Stop it!" Bolan snapped suddenly.
"You..."
"I heard something. Be quiet!"
The truck was leaning perilously, and the growl of the engine gradually disappeared under an increasingly louder thumping, like that of approaching thunder.
"A flat tire," she said, "nothing to worry about. It happens a lot up here."
"No, before that. It was sharper. I heard it twice, no more than that."
"Maybe..." The truck crashed into something, and Bolan was thrown forward,
"How so?"
"If I say jump, you will ask how high. All because I have the gun."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
She ignored the implicit disagreement. "But that's not all. It makes us different, having power. It also puts you on the defensive, the same way knowledge does. Knowledge, too, is a kind of power."
"You think so?"
"I know it. Take the fact that you really don't know why you're here. Not the truck I don't mean that. I mean Manila. The Philippines. I think maybe that's why I took off your handcuffs. You are a kind of innocent. You're like a child, somehow. Most things are so simple for you, and yet some things are so complex you don't even try to understand them. But you don't care. For you, they amount to the same thing. You see something in black and white, or you don't see it at all. And you don't even realize that."
Bolan listened to the laboring engine for a while. He could feel it throbbing through the floorboards. From the strain, and the slight imbalance he felt, he assumed they were heading uphill now, and had been for a while. Slowly, perhaps, but certainly.
Finally he took up the gauntlet. "If you understand so much, why don't you explain things to me? Show me where I am wrong and you are right."
"You think I can't, don't you?"
"I don't think anything. Just do it, if you can."
"All right... let me tell you about your Mr. Charles Harding. How about that for a beginning?"
"Good a place as any, I suppose."
"Do you know why he's here, in the Philippines?"
"No."
"Is that why you were following him, to find out?"
"Who said I was following him?"
"Mr. Belasko, don't try to obscure the obvious. I know what I know. And I know you were following him. I know you came here from Los Angeles, just like Mr. Harding. But, unlike you, I also know why he is here."
He kept calculating the odds on overpowering the young woman, but they never changed, and he didn't like them. And he was getting interested, in spite of himself.
"Go on," he said.
"How much do you know about my country?"
"Enough."
"You remember the Huks? Hukbalahap? You don't seem old enough."
"I know of them, yes."
"And the New People's Army? You know of them, too?"
"Yes."
"You know why they existed, the Huks, the NPA? Because of people like your Mr. Harding."
"Stop calling him that. He's not "my" Mr. Harding. I don't know who the hell he belongs to, but it sure as hell isn't me."
"That's the American way, isn't it, Mr. Belasko? Let people be exploited, reap the rewards of that exploitation and disavow its architects. As long as you have two cars and three televisions, who cares about people who have to walk and who have no radio? "Fuck 'em," isn't that the American attitude?"
"Lady, if there's an attitude around here, it's yours, and I'm sick of it. You don't know jackshit about me. Talk about black and white. If there's a blacker black and a whiter white than the colors you're seeing, I don't know where the hell they might be."
"Of course, I knew you'd get around to that, sooner or later. The oppressor always blames the oppressed. Resentment is the privilege of the overclass..."
The truck lurched suddenly, but she pushed on.
"You always..."
"Stop it!" Bolan snapped suddenly.
"You..."
"I heard something. Be quiet!"
The truck was leaning perilously, and the growl of the engine gradually disappeared under an increasingly louder thumping, like that of approaching thunder.
"A flat tire," she said, "nothing to worry about. It happens a lot up here."
"No, before that. It was sharper. I heard it twice, no more than that."
"Maybe..." The truck crashed into something, and Bolan was thrown forward,
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