Reviews

The Maps of Camarines is an alternate history of a province under the thumb of three Spanish families. In this, the house bears witness to their many sins; in this, the ghosts augur for their ruination. It is the province of women to keep the secret histories of the names they marry into, and oh, what secrets! The perspective of the Arguelleses, Monsantillos, and Visbales are privileged here, but the land cries out.

This multi-general narrative benefits from the inherent mythology of the land and its language. From Spain, the three patriarchs brought their families here and wrestled ownership from the people, and this is the original sin. While Moll chose to tell it from the perspective of their descendants, it is clear that they are the villains of a story of which we are still part. The violence with which they created wealth is teased out at times with prettily worded justification, at times with blood on the page. Reading this, I had to reckon with two wolves inside me: one, the Filipino born into a specific family, with its specific history—its associations, its bygone wealth, its sins—and the other, the Filipino that is the product of my radical education. I rooted for the Arguelleses (a strength of Moll’s writing), and for consequence, too.

In particular, I was drawn to what Moll says about history—about the need for a record, about how even that—when it is disappeared, either by hand or by magic—fails. What good is it if kept secret? What good is it if only the walls know?

There is so much to love here, especially the language. Gemino Abad says that a transformation happens to English when wielded by Filipino hands, and the novel illustrates that point. There’s a specific cadence that can only be assumed by one weaned on our stories. And yet for all that, the novel stutters before finding its rhythm. In the beginning, there is an effort to translate. (This latter point is a matter of preference. I’d much rather that the writer commits, to show instead of tell, but anyway, Moll drops this. And we go on.)

One issue I have is how slim the novel is. For a story that spans generations and haciendas, 200 pages leaves something to be desired. The sense of foreboding trumps the climax. The pacing, as the genre dictates, takes its time, but then rushes. If only it continued on, this would have been really satisfying, like I had my fill. As it is, I was left wanting.

All in all, The Maps of Camarines, despite its minor flaws, is a wonderful interrogation of the sins we inherit, set against the backdrop of Filipino history. Must read for fans of Rosario Cruz-Lucero and Dean Alfar.

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