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It was 1950 when he built the White house.
The Greek architecture of the front porch made the visitors feel like Olympus has opened its gates to the mortals. In front the marble staircase which were being stained by the marks of the acid rain was the fountain built for Doña Aguanta, the wife of renowned Don in the barrio.
Back when the paints were fresh, children of the Don joyfully played around the fountain throwing coins, whispering their wishes.
On Sundays, their family traditions of afternoon tea was always feasted by their high socio-economic profile relatives in the barrio. Aside from biscuits, stories of how the farm was doing or how Juan's relationship with Juana was going through was their dessert.
It was a melancholy when all this Sunday tradition was just a memory printed on a piece of photo paper.
I made a tour studying the Greek architecture of the Mansion. It was really critically designed for a Filipino royalty and a well-known haciendero. The breeze tasted bitter from the terrible past witnessed by the walls of the Mansion. Only they can tell the real story of how the Don eventually ruined once a happy family.
The Don worshipped her wife's beauty like how the sun sets beyond the mountains every twilight. Her eyes were as brown as the soil of her motherland and hair as black as the the brewed coffee in the morning. Her smile used to brighten Juan’s day and her angelic voice every morning were the music to his ears.
Every Tuesday morning, the Don always surprised his wife with fresh bouquet of flowers picked from their garden. The scent of morning dew and fresh leaves were nicotine to Doña Aguanta.
I could see from the big couple portrait made from oil on 5 x 7-foot canvas. The smile painted on the Don and her wife masks the real story of their untold tragedy.
The living room was filled with piled antiques from the 19th century. Dust and time aged the furniture, chinaware, and even the books of the Don are now preserved in a glass cabinet.
Then the old broken ceramic tells the whole picture.
It was 7:00 am in the month of June 26th when the weather was fair and sunny. Birds chirped happily on the mango tree as the provincial breeze made the branches sway.
Doña Aguanta was writing on her journal, sitting on the front porch facing the fountain, about what happened yesterday, with her fountain pen continuously doing its work on the pages. The words were waterfalls flowing out from her writing pen. The sound of the water from the fountain was the only sound that broke the silence above the noise. As she was about to end her paragraph with a period, a loud bang from her husband’s shotgun made the birds startled and flew away. The atmosphere was muted as everyone wondered what happened.
Doña Aguanta rushed inside the mansion and saw her daughter, Serafina, lying on the floor on the pool of her own blood.
The Don was helpless lying on the floor - beaten to death. And on the far left corner of the room stood a man, a man they knew very well. A man whose reputation of probity was established on these very room when the Don entrusted some of his farm shares to the husband of Serafina.
"Julian!" were Dona Aguanta's only words at the very moment. The moment froze like time paralyzed her reality.