Then, in the same breath: Who would Rizal be without the firing squad? Just a brown man in coattails and a bowler hat, homesick in Madrid, yakking away about revolution this and independence that. I don’t want to be another sad, ranting, exiled old-timer. It’s not a crystal ball he wants—just a little reassurance. “You’re going to get on that plane,” says the old girl, “and we’re going to follow you.”
