by P. F. Kluge
“What’s that supposed to mean, George?”
“Clifford Lerner.”
“Who?”
“Come on, Susan. The journalist I told you about. The one who was working his way down memory lane, Olmos to Contreras. I told you he was good. I told you he played around at the G-spot. The next thing, Contreras’s boys catch him with his pants down. At the G-spot. Then he’s gone.”
“Ah. And you think that was my doing?”
“I’ve wondered.”
“Wondered? It sounds like you’ve decided. What else have you decided? Have you decided I was assigned to you? ‘Get close to that man Griffin, no matter what it takes.’ You think that?”
“All right,” George said. “Do me a favor. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that talk we had about Clifford Lerner never got repeated anywhere. Tell me that. Please.”
“Oh, George,” she said. “Grow up.” And with that, she left him.
He found a San Miguel and headed across the lawn, into the shadows of the old fort. The place was a hodgepodge. Under the battlements, a row of stables was a kind of auto mausoleum, sheltering the limousines of every president from Quezon on. Elsewhere, there was a museum shrine dedicated to Jose Rizal, the martyred patriot who had been held here before his execution by the Spanish. There were Rizal paintings, clothing, furniture, manuscripts; life-size tableaux of the man’s last moments. Outside Rizal’s cell, Griffin spotted some steps that led up to the walls that circled the fort. From the top, he could see the arrival of the First Family: Marcos, simply dressed in barong tagalog and dark slacks, and Imelda Marcos in a white, high-shouldered Spanish gown. The flashbulbs caught her diamonds; it looked as though she’d showered in them and hadn’t finished drying off around her neck and ears. Between the two Marcoses was their daughter, Imee, the Princeton-educated one. War hero and beauty queen and troubled daughter: a family out of Camelot, and if Camelot had turned way past ripe, who was to say that the same thing wouldn’t have happened to Kennedy’s Camelot, or anybody else’s?
Just outside was the Pasig River, once a natural protective moat, now a viscous coliform fiesta. Across the river lay the old business district, then Chinatown, then Tondo. You had to wonder if they knew what the king was doing tonight, and, if they did, would they react with anger or with envy? Crash, or trash, the party? That was the only question.
Footsteps around him. A row of choirboys come up the ladder, acolytes with candles, distributing themselves at intervals, along the wall. And then, at the end of the procession, a voice.
“What are you doing up here, Mr. Griffin?” Cecilia Santos was no choirboy. She wore a black skirt and a black jacket with golden tinselly threads woven through it. And she was smiling at him.
“Looking for perspective,” he said, gesturing at the party. A parade started winding through the fort, religious statues, all gold and silver and lit by hundreds of candles, alternating with beauty queens on lavish, flowered floats. Wow!
“For perspective you’ll have to go farther away than here,” Cecilia Santos commented. She drew a cigarette out of her purse and—before Griffin could move to light it—snapped her fingers at one of the choirboys who, after a brief moment of spiritual crisis, rushed over and held out his candle to her Benson and Hedges. “Where is your companion?”
“He’s back at the hotel, resting.”
“No, not that tiresome old man, not him. I mean that dark, gorgeous creature from the embassy. You brought her to my sister’s house. I saw her a while ago. Is she with you?”
“No.”
“Too bad. She’s so beautiful . . . for her type. The heavy, full-bodied earth mother.”
Griffin laughed at the faintness of the praise. Women were brutal.
“In the Philippines our women tend to be somewhat lighter, finer. Have you tried one?”
“No.” Griffin wondered what was up. It was no good trying to figure out women like Cecilia Santos and Birdy Villanueva. You’d be calling time-out after every sentence, just to think. Better to let what would happen happen and save understanding for your old age.
“Please . . .” She walked over to the edge of the battlement, executed a turn that a ramp model would have envied, and came back toward him.
“I would like to propose a truce.”
“A truce?”
“Between us, yes.”
“Not an armistice. Not a treaty. We’re not disarming or—God forbid—surrendering.”
“A truce to start with,” she said. She offered him her arm. “Perspective later. Party first.”
With Cecilia Santos on his arm, Griffin was a star. Earlier, when he felt like a stranger, he rationalized that being a stranger behooved him: he was the sharp-eyed spectator, professionally detached. Now he wasn’t so sure. Cecilia Santos was marvelous company, and with her beside him, it seemed Manila was full of people who were anxious to meet him, not just journalists and movie people, but businessmen, officials, boutique owners, stewardesses. They all wanted to know about the book and, the more they asked, the more it seemed the book was his. Colonel Harry Roberts Harding had lived it, but the living was over. So, almost, was the telling. Then Harding would be empty, gone, silent, and Griffin would remain in sole possession. He wasn’t there yet, but he would be soon, and he was looking forward to the time when the partnership would be over and he would be sole proprietor. As the evening bubbled along, he did less and less to discourage the only slightly premature notion that the book was in the bag, story, secrets, ending, and all, that Marcos, MacArthur, Yamashita, and—but of course—the elusive General Contreras all played important parts.
It got better and better, and why not? He’d spent weeks putting up with Harry Roberts Harding and this was his reward. Attention, adulation, expectations, the sort of flurry that Harding couldn’t cope with, but why should Griffin deny himself? He was entitled. Was the book finished? “All but the writing,” he answered with a smile that implied the true magic was still to come. His magic.
“My little sister!” Birdy Villanueva embraced Cecilia. “Hello, Mr. Griffin.”
“Good evening. Where’s Jun?”
“In the States by now, I hope.”
“Is there a problem?”
“I hope not. Our daughter’s graduating from Sweetbriar. How goes your book?”
“Very well,” Griffin said. He noticed that Birdy glanced at her sister, as though the question about the book was something that Cecilia might be able to answer. In fact, Cecilia did answer, nodding slightly.
“I can’t wait!” Birdy cried. “You must send me an advance copy. Mark the dirt! The section on General Contreras!”
“Birdy!” Cecilia cautioned.
“Well, why not?” Birdy asked. “We have a right to know about our leaders.” She paused and laughed. “And I want to be the first to know!”
“My sister . . .” Cecilia sighed.
“Off with you,” Birdy said. “I must leave. This time Imelda has really gone too far.”
Birdy was the first important guest to leave, but not long afterward Ferdinand Marcos followed, departing with the air of a man who was anxious not to miss the last half of Monday Night Football. His wife and daughter lingered. Imee stepped out with Jeremy Irons. Imelda saved a dance for George Hamilton. And Cecilia Santos was George Griffin’s partner.
“What if I cut in on the First Lady?” Griffin wondered aloud.
He thought he was whispering suavely, but Cecilia Santos put a finger over his lips. It wasn’t the last part of her his lips would touch. He was feeling lucky.
“Cut in on her? And leave me?”
“Unthinkable,” he said. On the dance floor Griffin attempted as little as possible during the upbeat tunes and Cecilia Santos appreciated his restraint. His reward came with the slow music. His lips were right against her ear.
“I feel good about tonight,” he said. Turning slowly to “Stranger in Paradise,” he could see the crowd of people surrounding the dance floor, hangers-on, bodyguards, gawker
s. Outside the walls was a larger crowd, the uninvited millions. Well, who ever said life was fair? While they were still dancing, the Marcos women left, departing in the usual flurry of flashbulbs. The dance-floor mood was broken. Cecilia Santos pulled away abruptly, in mid-dance, as if something invisible had cut in on her. She didn’t consult with Griffin. “I can drop you off at your hotel.”
“All right,” Griffin said. There was a perfect line out there. Maybe he’d think of it tomorrow. And use it on the next girl. This one was headed for the exit.
In the car, Griffin estimated the drive back to the Manila Hotel wouldn’t take more than two minutes. He realized he’d have to move fast to have any chance at Cecilia Santos. What made it hard was that she’d fallen silent. It was as though she was waiting for him to make his move. He even thought he detected a faint smile of anticipation on her face, a curiosity about what he’d come up with. He leaned toward her just when she decided to light a cigarette. Her match flared, just long enough to light up, and just as Griffin moved toward her, his hand already on her shoulder, turning her toward him, he saw the look in her eyes, which wasn’t amusement and wasn’t longing. It was contempt. There was no mistaking it. He removed his hand and sat back in his seat and let a few hundred yards of Manila pass them by.
“You came on to me,” he said after a while. “What was that about?”
“I needed to know about the book. Where it was. How far along.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe not. I’m sure it’s complicated. Try me.”
“I was doing my job.”
“Miss Santos, I wasn’t going to accuse you of doing anything for the fun of it. What’s your job? Who are you working for? Imelda Marcos? Larry Wingfield? Birdy and Jun Villanueva?”
“Everybody. Nobody. Myself.”
“That’s what whores say,” Griffin fired back and before he had a chance to regret it, Cecilia Santos delivered a sharp slap across his mouth.
“Fast hands!”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s your damn jewelry. Cut my lip.”
“Why don’t you apologize?”
“I was going to. I’m sorry. All right? I guess everybody has reasons for the things they do.”
“Stop here,” Cecilia Santos called out to the driver.
They were on Roxas Boulevard, right near Luneta Park, just before the turn that led to the Manila Hotel. At first he thought she was going to dump him at the curb and let him walk the rest of the way. But she made no move toward excusing him. They sat together and said nothing. Across the park, two Philippine marines stood guard at Rizal’s floodlit statue.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Cecilia Santos said.
Traffic came up behind them. A panel truck loaded with religious statues from the party, some Virgin Mary or other calling it a night. Cecilia Santos signaled for the driver to pull around to the Quirino Bandstand. She told the driver to take a walk, then opened the door to let some air in. She breathed deeply as if she were about to start a speech. Then she laughed. Nothing to do with him, nothing he could share, but still a laugh.
“I don’t even know where to start,” she said.
“The movie,” Griffin prompted. “Your sister. And Imelda Marcos.”
“That was to be expected. The producers—Beaumont and Wingfield—came along with an attractive project. Both women wanted to be part of it. Birdy got there first. But there was no denying Imelda. They compete. They always compete. That was where I came in. I was acceptable to both sides. Never mind why.”
Griffin hadn’t even meant to ask. Looking at her, he knew why. She was like them. If Birdy Villanueva was a current challenger to Imelda Marcos, Cecilia Santos could replace either or both of them. Griffin reminded himself to try to figure out why it was that this most macho and chauvinistic of countries, this hothouse of sexual innuendo and pro-forma infidelity, produced such strong women. Was it a paradox or a consequence? The men, affable, clubby little philanderers, strutted and stroked while the women they played with played for higher stakes.
“But the competition became disorderly when your Colonel Harding returned. And then your book compounded things. Because people started to see that this wasn’t just a glamorous project or a convenient investment. It had to do with history. And history had to do with us. It had to do especially with President Marcos, who revels in history, and dreams and mourns it. It had to do with General Contreras. This was a chance to put pressure on him . . .”
“Why? What is it about Contreras?”
“He frightens people. He’s so outside of things, so aloof, so distant. This is a place where everybody who matters knows everybody else who matters. Marcos knows Villanueva. He knows Aquino. He knows Laurel. Birdy knows Imelda. They call themselves enemies, they may even believe it. But the worst enemy—they would all agree on this—is the man they don’t know. That’s Nestor Contreras.”
“I see,” Griffin said. But it was only half true. His book was going to let a lot of people down: Harding had nothing to say about Contreras.
“There have always been rumors about Contreras’s past. Things that happened during the war. So when Colonel Harding remembered his name on Corregidor and, then, when he announced a whole book of memories, well, people saw a chance to apply pressure. They saw a chance to hit a nerve. And they were right. You saw what happened to your friend Lerner. It could happen to you. I suggest you go someplace far away to finish your book. With the movie company departing, I won’t be able to protect you.”
“You protected me? You?”
“Every mile you drove. Every meeting. The people I work for wanted you to finish the book.”
“I thought you hated the thing.”
“That was an act, an act that happened to reflect my personal thoughts.”
“Cecilia Santos,” he said. “Forgive me. Your personal thoughts? What are they? It’s the last I’ll ask you. Then I’m gone.”
“Promise?” She laughed. A woman of private humors. Private everything. “You won’t be gone. There are always more Americans coming to visit. To learn, to be shocked and titillated. To have adventures. A war adventure or a woman adventure. Or both. That’s my answer, by the way, my personal thoughts. I’m tired of Americans coming here and telling us what things mean and what they meant and I’m tired of us waiting to hear what they say. Tired of memories and monuments and movies. I don’t care . . .”
When she finished she looked at him to see what impact her words had. Griffin took a finger of his hand, kissed it, and reached out and put the finger on her lips.
“You’re terrific,” he said. “I wonder where on earth you’ll get to.”
She shrugged. “I’m not worried.”
“I should hope not.” He hated tearing himself away, but it was time to go.
“I’d like to run into you again sometime,” he said. “And start all over.”
“Now why would I want to do a thing like that?” she asked.
“You’re terrific,” he repeated, walking away.
“Mr. Griffin,” she called out. “About Contreras . . . what did Harding say? What is it all about?”
“Nothing,” Griffin confessed. “Not a word. The joke’s on me.”
“The joke’s on all of us.” Delicious laughter trailed behind her departing limousine.
The hour before dawn, supposedly the darkest, saw an odd commotion in the lobby of the Manila Hotel. Griffin wondered whether a group of tourists might be checking out at an ungodly hour. Then he saw reporters camping out, and cameramen. What was this? Had the old man pulled another surprise? He stepped into the lobby, toward the registration desk. Susan Hayes intercepted him.
“I’ve been waiting for you for hours,” she said. She looked as though she’d been on an all-night vigil, a cup of coffee in her hand.
“What’s the matter? He didn’t go wandering off?”
“Yes he did,” she said, and there
it was again, that green-eyed look he thought he’d left behind. “I thought I should be the one to tell you.”
“You mean—”
“He died around midnight.”
Part Nine
FINDING CONNIE
CHAPTER 41
“What’s the big deal about San Leandro?” Cadillac Bill asked. Elbow out the window, cigar in mouth, six-pack of road beer in the driver’s seat, he steered through the broad, wet reaches of Nueva Ecija, the road a dusty causeway between fields of mud. “I been through that town a time or two. It’s a dump.”
“Colonel Harding was pointed there,” Griffin replied. “He even gave me a picture. He said it was taken before the second Battle of San Leandro.”
“Yeah. So?”
“He told me about the first battle. Not the second.”
“That’s not much.”
“He said we’d find our ending there. He said it would be our last chapter.”
“Christ, George, you spend more time looking for endings.”
While Cadillac Bill drove on, Griffin closed his eyes, feigning sleep. He thought back to Harding’s funeral. The death MacArthur’s Ghost had sought in the mountains had been waiting for him in the Manila Hotel’s best suite, right in bed, like a room-service hooker. Now he’d joined all the other ghosts whose company he and Griffin had been sharing. He rested under the funeral ground he’d trod so nonchalantly, wreath in hand, a few weeks before. And it was left to Griffin to travel to the place that had terrified him.
The Cadillac was hot, even with the windows down, and the sleep he was faking crept up on him. He found himself thinking of Susan. How she’d been there in the hotel lobby, waiting for him. “I thought I should be the one to tell you.” How she’d walked with him out across Rizal Park, through the children’s playground at the edge of the bay, strolling between slides and swings and sandboxes that were like memories of uncomplicated life. How she’d gestured for a cab and taken him to her home in Paranaque and sat next to him, not saying a word, as if the silence was something perfect they were building and, the longer it lasted, the better it was. And how she’d led him inside, upstairs, and had made love to him, beginning with a gentleness he appreciated, being in mourning. “That was for us,” she said when they finished. And how, all of a sudden, when Susan said us, he was back with Harry Roberts Harding, dead one day, and this was part of his legacy, wondering about I and we and they. “For us,” he repeated after her.
