Saturday evening arrived. Sporting my most elegant business suit I went down to the lobby to meet Beth Romulo. At 6:30 precisely a Mercedes sedan pulled up at the portal. An Anglo woman got out. The doorman greeted her with familiarity and ushered her in, and her driver took the car away. I rose from my armchair and walked over to intercept her. “Beth Romulo?” I ventured. She was handsome and stylishly-dressed, I guessed 60-ish but carrying her age well. She fitted the voice I’d heard on the phone.
“Mr. Philco? Pleased to meet you,” she said, extending a gloved hand in greeting.
“Should we go into the bar, or would you prefer to sit out here?” I asked.
“A stiff drink would suit me just fine,” she said.
We found a table and a waiter took our orders. She wasn’t kidding about that stiff drink—a double martini straight up. “Having a tough day?” I asked.
“Tough day, tough week, tough month, tough year. My husband, General Romulo, is very ill, probably terminally so. That’s why he is not with me tonight. Imelda thought that you, a visiting American of great importance, would be a proper escort for me. So my husband, obviously, is on my mind. And then there’s the disturbing business with Dr. Baccay yesterday.”
“Found dead? I saw it mentioned in this morning’s paper.”
“Found murdered, with 19 stab wounds, but that won’t be in the papers for a while, if ever. Also the papers didn’t mention that he had recently disclosed to the press that Ferdinand Marcos had two kidney transplant operations, which Ferdinand had been keeping secret. It was not a coincidence. There are no coincidences in this country. It has put everyone on his guard.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your husband, and I hope his situation is not dire.”
“Thank you for the thought, but I’m afraid that it is. It’s not as though it is some kind of tragedy. He’s much older than I. It’s what one expects and prepares for.”
Our drinks arrived. She lifted hers and said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I echoed, then added with a twinkle, “So tell me, Mrs. Romulo, what’s a girl like you doing in a nice place like this?”
“A good question, to be sure,” she replied. “Well, it’s a long story…”
BETH ROMULO’S STORY
“. . .but call me Beth, and I’ll call you Jack, my escort for the evening, okay? I first met General Romulo in 1957 in New York City. I worked as a freelance journalist, and Reader’s Digest assigned me to write an article about him. At the time he was both the Philippine Representative to the United Nations and also their United States Ambassador. He invited me to breakfast in New York City. Among other things, he had once been a reporter, and he structured the story he gave me in such a way that my article virtually wrote itself. Despite being several inches shorter than I, Romy was a very compelling man, dapper and fastidious. He wore custom-tailored clothing, even his pajamas, and maintained meticulous grooming. He could dominate a room simply through his self-assurance and charm. He and I were both married at the time; nevertheless we felt a mutual attraction. He was 20 years my senior, but he carried his age well and it made no difference to either of us.
“Fast forward 15 years, to 1972. He had survived a near-fatal auto accident in Manila and was back in New York City. Reader’s Digest thought there might be another story there. I called for an appointment, and he invited me to a dinner he was hosting in honor of George and Barbara Bush, George being the U. S. Representative to the U. N. at that time. It was only then I learned that his wife, Virginia, had died four years previously, leaving Carlos a much sought-after widower. I’d become a widow myself in 1967. I began spending time with him and soon found out how revered he was in his native land—a general, a diplomat, by the end with 84 honorary degrees and nearly 200 special medals and decorations. He even served as President of the United Nations General Assembly. Oh, the man could speak! A real spellbinder. He had his difficult side, as men often do—present company excepted, I’m sure—but easily forgiven.
“I flew to Manila in 1973, as a guest of the government, to interview Ferdinand for a Saturday Review cover story, and Ladies Home Journal had asked me to write something about Imelda. I was in Manila three weeks, toward the end of which the General all but proposed marriage. He explained that an ambassador must get permission to marry a foreigner, which was impossible at that time, as Carlos was on a panel negotiating the renewal of leases for the American military bases. His marrying an American would have dubious implications. So I went back to New York to straighten things up there and returned here a few months later. He put me up in a suite in the Manila Hilton, and I was ‘the girlfriend’ until we married in 1978. By then everyone realized I was no threat to anyone, least of all their beloved General, so I was accepted in elite circles. Imelda, particularly, took to me—she’s very much a romantic, as are Filipinas in general. And I’ve been here ever since, and…
“. . . goodness—those martinis do loosen one’s tongue! I hope I haven’t bent your ear too far.”
“I asked for it, didn’t I? You mentioned Dr. Baccay. It sounded like there’s a story behind it.”
“Dr. Baccay was president of the Kidney Foundation of the Philippines, and he had revealed to the Pittsburgh Press that Marcos had two kidney transplant operations.”
“And he was killed because of that?”
“Many suspect so. You see, Ferdinand Marcos aspires to be President forever, and he is something of a fitness nut. However, he also is a very sick man, with severe kidney disease. He kept his transplants secret, fearing that the people would not let him continue in office if they knew. A murder suspect was caught, and his motive supposedly was robbery. As usual. Though they had a difficult time asserting that in the case of Ninoy Aquino.”
“Why so?”
“Because he was shot by government soldiers in front of witnesses as he stepped off a plane at the airport.”
The time to depart soon arrived. Beth’s car idled at the curb. The uniformed driver put us in, and we took off for Malacanang Palace, the Marcos’s residence. It was about two miles away, sited on the banks of the Pasig River. En route she asked how my work was going.
“Not badly,” I replied. “I’m here to investigate the possibilities of a syndicated loan to the government, and people have understandably been very helpful.” I told her the list of interviews I’d had thus far. “One thing I wonder about,” I said, “is that without exception they’ve told me pretty much the same thing. They present a good picture, but I’m surprised at the uniformity.”
“You shouldn’t be surprised. Marcos owns all those companies, and the newspaper publisher and the professor you talked to are in his pocket. They knew you were coming, and they were primed for it.”
“He owns the bank, the telephone company and the sugar company?”
“Not necessarily ‘owns.’ Some, yes. Others he controls through the people he appoints. Marcos controls just about everything here—banks, sugar, coconuts, the telephone company, the television and radio stations, the newspapers. His cronies get rich, but beyond that the profits mostly flow to him and Imelda. A few years ago I wouldn’t be telling you all this, but since the Aquino assassination the Philippines have been increasingly aboil. Situations are coming to a head, opposition is gaining support and Marcos feels under attack. I don’t like any of it. My husband, throughout his long career in the highest levels of government, has never been party to the corruption, and that is one reason why he is so beloved by the people. We live well, that is true, but his integrity is unquestioned. Unlike most others in the elite.”
Suddenly lights along the road blacked out. I looked around—few lights showed anywhere. “Now what?” I asked.
“Power outage. We have them every now and then. If you’ve been spending your evenings around your hotel you may not have noticed them. The Manila Hotel has a backup generator, as do other important buildings. Sometimes it�
��s a fuel shortage—we have to import our oil and coal—and sometimes it’s equipment breakdown. Sometimes, who knows? Sabotage? Work stoppage? It’s not so bad here as it is on the other islands, where outages are simply part of the rhythm of life. In the better parts of Manila the government looks after its own.”
The road followed the curve of the Pasig River, and presently we approached an oasis of bright lights. Two-storied and sprawling, with a complicated roofline, the Palace architecture fit no pattern I could identify. Mercedes sedans, Jaguars, Rolls-Royces, Cadillacs and other luxury rides were rolling up, disgorging Manila’s elite, then shuttling over to parking areas. “Most of the guests have arrived,” Beth remarked. “They don’t want to miss any time at a free bar.”
Uniformed butlers ushered us into a thronging, tropically-ornate reception area. The men I saw wore either fine business suits or medal-bedizened military uniforms. Their ladies augmented elegant evening gowns with cascades of pearls, diamonds and gold. I estimated around 50 people in the room. Not exactly a casual, drop-in evening. Several women circulating through the crowd wore identical, pure white gowns with odd, upthrust shoulders on the sleeves, and bright blue sashes around their midriffs. Highlights and pinpoints sprayed off the diamonds that covered them.
“Those women, they can’t be household staff?” I asked Beth.
“ Ha ha, no. They are Imelda’s Blue Ladies,” she answered. “Imelda has a large retinue of them, always on call. Most are the wives of men Ferdinand or Imelda made wealthy through business connections. Imelda will go nowhere without an entourage of them in tow. In return for their attendance she showers with them with jewelry and other gifts. And assists their husbands’ pursuit of wealth, of course. For the Blue Ladies, having to be at Imelda’s beck and call is a price they pay for the comfortable lives they lead.”
“What’s with the sleeves on those dresses?”
“They call them ‘butterfly sleeves.’ Very popular here. Filipina women think they enhance their beauty, as if they need any help. Come, I’ll give you a quick tour and introduce you to people.” The public areas of the Palace were elegant, as befits the residence of a head of state. Nowhere near the Shah’s sumptuous opulence, but reaching. The Shah had 6,000 years of tradition behind him, plus fields of black-gold-spewing wells shoring up his wealth. Considering the economic development of the Philippines, Malacanang Palace’s extravagance exceeded the call of vanity.
Beth led me down wide, chandelier-lit corridors, and we took peeks into dim meeting rooms, halls and salons. The other guests mostly congregated in the reception rooms where exotic, petite maids dispensed drinks and hors d’oeuvres from silver trays, so we had the rest of the place pretty much to ourselves. She explained that the Palace dated back to the early 19th century, the Spanish colonial period. After 1863 it had been the residence of the Spanish heads of government, and following them the American governors, the first civilian one being William Howard Taft before he became President and then Supreme Court Chief Justice. The building survived World War Two, serving as the Japanese headquarters, and since Independence it housed Philippine heads of state. The Marcoses had lived there since the 1960s.
Panels of lustrous dark tropical woods covered some walls. Display cases of artifacts, awards and trinkets of note lined others. I’m no art expert, but some paintings on public display looked like European masterpieces. Portraits of past rulers occupied a lot of wall space, including a surfeit of paintings and photographs of Ferdinand and Imelda. In their younger days Ferdinand was a handsome, vital man, and Imelda, with wide brown eyes and soft features in a heart-shaped face, was indisputably a knockout. “The hell’s that?” I asked, pointing to a pair of large oils. One showed Ferdinand bare from the waist up, standing behind bushes in a jungle setting. The other showcased Imelda in a flowing gown posed before a dramatic sky, a wispy fog of yellows and green swirling before her.
“The Filipino Adam and Eve,” Beth quipped. “Or maybe Adam and Venus. Nobody ever accused the Marcoses of having good taste.”
We returned to the crowd, noisy with gossip, shop talk and good cheer. “Here’s somebody you should meet,” Beth said and steered me toward a short, pugnacious man in a ranking officer’s uniform. “Fabian, this is Jack Philco, visiting from New York. I believe you’ve been told about him. Jack, this is General Fabian Ver.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said extending my hand.
He took it in a firm grip. “The pleasure is all mine. So you are a banker who might see his way to a loan for our government and are therefore doing some investigating?”
“That’s why I’m here, yes sir,” I said. Beth excused herself to fetch drinks.
“I did a little investigating of my own. I had an informative conversation with your Mr. Gladstone. But the odd thing is, asking around to other people in New York banking circles, I found no one who could tell me anything at all about your firm, Thermite Holdings.”
“I’m not surprised. We are a very private concern, and the business we do with others is strictly confidential. It is to their credit that none would discuss it with you.”
“Confidentiality is a virtue. We practice it here. We like to arrange financial matters out of the public eye. Funds pass from hand to hand in ways that might shrink from the light of publicity, for example considerations for friendly bankers.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, General Ver,” I said.
“Of course not, of course not,” he said with a sly smile and a little chuckle.
Beth rejoined us with champagne flutes in hand. Passing me one, she said, “We must move along, Jack. There are many people here you must talk to.”
“Would you please excuse us, General Ver?” I said with a slight bow. “I am very glad to have made your acquaintance.”
“I am sure we will be seeing more of each other, my friend,” he said.
Away from him, I whispered to Beth, “That crook all but offered me a kickback.”
“Why did it take him so long? That’s why I wanted you to meet him, an example of the kind of people you’re dealing with. Yes, he is a crook, and not necessarily the worst of the lot. He’s a killer as well. He was Ferdinand’s Chief of Staff, but he’s currently on leave because he’s under indictment for the murder of Ninoy Aquino. He’s still in control of the National Intelligence and Security Authority.”
“He doesn’t show any sign of stress or strain.”
“He’s no reason to. Nothing’s going to happen to him.”
“Maybe you should tell me more about Ninoy Aquino.”
“Definitely I should, and shall, but not here right now. Come along.” And so I met more of Manila’s A-List, the men generally enthusiastic banty roosters, the women diamond-draped little kittens and vixens, and all of the lot well-educated and full of themselves. Dinner seating put Beth and me among executives and government officials, nowhere near the Marcoses. Beth explained that I was only a visiting banker, not an emissary of state, so would not be invited to the head of the table, but Imelda had indicated that she definitely wanted to talk to me following dinner.
And so, after dessert was done, she did. “Mr. Philco, I welcome you to our lovely land. I understand you are here to assess the prospects for a large loan to the government, and I assure you that I will do everything in my power to help you with your work.”
In the woman standing before me I recognized the young stunner of the photos I’d examined during my Palace tour. Now in her 50s, Imelda Marcos plainly had been a beauty not long ago. But I recognized also something I’d seen in faded Hollywood starlets. Some women in their youth find they can get their way through beauty. But when they lose their beauty they do not lose their taste for getting their way and so develop other means, some not so nice. Imelda Marcos was one of those, and I wouldn’t want to be trapped between her and a diamond bauble she coveted.
On the other hand, there were ways aro
und those women. “Mrs. Marcos,” I breathed, gently taking her hand and gazing into her eyes, “I immediately recognized you from the photos in the corridor. They were taken recently, no?”
“Oh, I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” she giggled. “Please, call me Imelda.”
“With pleasure, and to you I am Jack, of course.” I could see from the corner of my eye Beth Romulo with difficulty holding back a guffaw.
“Are you enjoying your stay in the Manila Hotel, Jack?” Imelda asked. “It’s one of my favorite places, so I arranged a little room for you. I sent a welcome woman as well.”
“The Hotel is everything I could wish for, and the lady was charming. I thank you for your hospitality. Beth showed me around earlier. What a magnificent Palace this is, Imelda. No doubt it reflects the wealth of your lovely nation?”
“Yes, the Philippines are rich in resources and especially in our fine people. We wish to bring even more prosperity to our country, and that is why we need to borrow money, to build and improve these lovely islands for the future. So much promise to be awakened, so much wealth to be released.”
“In my interviews the last few days I’ve heard much the same. Of course I’ll have to make a close examination of the financial structure and assess available collateral.”
“That’s the reason why we held this party, Mr. Philco. So you could meet the people who matter in the Philippines. Now that you’re here, I think we should talk about your mission here. Beth, could you excuse us? Go and mingle with your friends?”
“Certainly, Imelda,” she said. “I’ll collect you later, Jack.”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 30
