“It may have been presented as a surprise by the Marcos-controlled papers,” she said, “but the fact is that we have gathered over a million signatures on petitions backing me. We have many people working on my behalf, but it is not emphasized in the news because Marcos suppresses it.”
“You filed for the election the day after General Ver was acquitted, I noticed.”
“That was the last straw!” she spat. “They had the whole assassination on video, and the idea that those beasts could just walk off scot free, I couldn’t just let that go by. Let me tell you about my late husband…”
CORAZON AQUINO’S STORY
“Right from the earliest days, Benigno Aquino—Ninoy, everybody called him—represented the strongest and most effective opposition to Marcos. He came from a wealthy, landowning family. While still a teenager he became a war correspondent for the Manila Times and won a government award for his reporting in the Korean War. He took up law at the University of the Philippines and a few years after that successfully negotiated the surrender of the Huk communist rebels. For that he was awarded his second Philippine Legion of Honor. He then entered politics and became mayor of Concepcion at the age of 22. His political career progressed to the point where at age 34 he became the youngest elected senator in the country’s history.
“That occurred soon after Marcos became president, and Ninoy was his most vehement critic. He called out Imelda for her extravagant Cultural Center, labeling her a megalomaniac with a penchant to captivate. He warned that Marcos was trying to impose a garrison state. This of course made him a marked man. When Marcos declared martial law based on trumped-up pretexts, Ninoy was immediately arrested and imprisoned on charges of murder, illegal possession of firearms and subversion, linking him with the New People’s Army and a Communist insurgency. He was kept in solitary confinement much of the time, finally resorting to a 40-day hunger strike. Several months later he was convicted by the Military Commission and sentenced to death by firing squad. The injustice of this provoked a world-wide outrage.
“However, the sentence could not be carried out because Ninoy had a heart attack in prison and was permitted to go to the United States for treatment. That being successful, and to recover the family finances that lay in ruins, he toured the U.S. giving speeches in freedom rallies.
“In 1983 word reached him that the Philippines’ political situation was deteriorating, and his allies in the Liberal Party felt strongly he could help bring about the country’s return to democracy. He called for Marcos to step down, for the good of the nation. He was advised to wear a bullet-proof vest for his return, which—foolishly, I think—he announced en route. Now, Ferdinand Marcos is a very superstitious man, and a soothsayer warned him that if Ninoy set foot on Philippine soil, Marcos would fall. Therefore, as Ninoy came down the steps from his China Airline flight a single shot hit him in the head before he alit on the tarmac. And then someone shot nearby Rolando Galman, whom the authorities immediately claimed to be ‘the lone Communist gunman.’ Some seconds later a squad of men stormed out of an Aviation Security Command van and pumped Galman’s body full of additional bullets. The whole incident was recorded on film, and the delay of the security men proved it was a staged event gone wrong.
“The assassination was on front pages everywhere in the world except in the Marcos-controlled press here. Nevertheless, Filipinos immediately staged demonstrations and called for Marcos’s resignation or impeachment. The country was in turmoil, which Marcos answered with further repression. When local business leaders publicly criticized Marcos’s record on human rights, he ordered 33 of them charged with ‘economic sabotage.’ More than two million people lined the streets for Ninoy’s funeral, and again the Marcos press ignored it, the only coverage being the Church-sponsored station, Radio Veritas.
“The outcry was strong enough to provoke a commission charged with investigating the assassination. The majority concluded that Ninoy and Galman were shot by someone in his security detail, which had been provided by Marcos. Finally, in February this year, 26 military and security men were indicted and put on trial for the assassination plot, including General Ver. As announced on December 2, all were acquitted, and that was just too much for everybody. When Ninoy returned to the Philippines in 1983 it was despite his forebodings, because he was dedicated to helping his people, and they killed him in plain sight and left his corpse lying there. And then this slap in the face! I declared my candidacy the next day after they let Ver off.”
“I can certainly see why,” I said. “How has your campaign been going?”
“Better than you’d take from the local press and television,” she said. “I have a strong following on the larger islands, and probably the smaller ones too, though they don’t amount to many votes. I think I’ll do all right here on Luzon, too. It isn’t that I won’t have enough votes to win. I know I will. I have run political campaigns before. It’s what Ferdinand will do to thwart me that’s the obstacle.”
“I’ve heard he cheats.”
“I don’t know that he’s ever won an election honestly. Stuffing ballot boxes is only a part of it. His people remove opposition voters from the registration rolls, or move their names to other precincts without informing them. They throw away opposition votes without counting them or simply steal the ballot boxes. Out in the rural districts popular opposition candidates have been gunned down or their campaign workers beaten. On Mindanao they tell me that even the trees, rocks and monkeys vote for Mr. Marcos. My government sources report that right now the Treasury is printing money to send around to buy votes and influence. He does it every election. One time he overdid it and bankrupted the nation’s economy.”
“It’s odd to be meeting you and talking about this here in Forbes Park. We’re surrounded by Marcos supporters, aren’t we?”
“On the contrary, when Benigno was murdered, Makati was ground zero for outrage and protest demonstrations. Here more than anywhere, because people in this district have a vital interest in such matters. Most of these people would dearly love to see Imelda’s backside disappearing into the distance.”
“I wish there were some way I could help,” I said.
“You are not a citizen, so you cannot get involved. But one thing, please don’t loan him any money.”
*
I chatted with Cory Aquino a while longer about the Philippines, about her background, about her vision, about her perspective on the situation. She was a very sharp woman, and despite my mission I couldn’t help but root for her. I came away up more puzzled than ever. There was no way she could steal the election from Marcos. There wasn’t even any way for her to win it fair and square.
Then the next day I got a call from Luz. “Mr. Philco,” she said, “I wonder if I could impose on you a little. I of course report on my assignments to Auntie, and from what I have told her, she has taken an interest in you. I wonder if you could spare a little time from your busy schedule to meet with her?”
I was fast becoming Manila’s favorite drop-in guest. An invite to shoot the shit with my call girl’s madam? Is that a move up in the world, or a step down? Considering the nature of her clientele, she might provide intel from a different angle, so I didn’t spend any time deciding. “Sure, I’d be delighted,” I said. “Give me a time and place.” The time was convenient, early afternoon the next day, but the place surprised me: another address in Forbes Park.
Same Mercedes, same driver, same U.S. $20 to the gate man. Today took us to a different part of town, though not much different in look from the rest. We stopped before a modern one-story home, lots of straight lines and glass, under a canted flat roof. The large leaves of well-tended banana plants softened the stark architecture and provided privacy from the road. A uniformed maid answered my ring and invited me in: “You are Mr. Philco? Come with me.”
She ushered me to a room off the living area, an office with filing cabinets, work surfa
ces, bookshelves, several telephones and a shriveled, monkey-faced old crone facing me from a motorized wheel chair. The chair was top of the line, fitted with so many features that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her fly away in it. She wore a lush silk gown and was so bejeweled that you’d need polarized shades to look at her in bright sunlight. “Do not be alarmed,” she said in a weary voice I recognized. “I’m not contagious. Please do sit down.”
I eased myself onto a rattan, cushioned chair. “It’s not that, of course,” I said. “Coming into a house like this, you are not what one expects to see. You are Luz’s aunt?”
“Yes, I am Auntie. I am glad you were able to come talk to me. Luz’s report on your excursion with her aroused my interest. It is possible I may be able to help you, and rest assured, I have no intention of harming you. At first glance my appearance is a shock to people, so don’t feel you have to apologize for your reaction. After you have heard my tale, you will understand. Life has treated me harshly. I rose to meet the challenge, but my current repulsive state, poorly concealed by all these trappings, is the price one pays.”
AUNTIE’S TALE
“My misfortune began at the commencement of young womanhood. All women desire beauty, but it can be an evil curse in the wrong circumstances. I was the prettiest girl in my village at the age of 15. That same year the Japs invaded the Philippines. As ill-luck would have it, we were directly in the path of their advance from Linguyen Gulf to Manila. As the Jap army moved through our villages they kidnapped young women for use as comfort women for the troops. If our parents objected, the Japs bayonetted them before our eyes—not even spending a bullet on them. You can imagine our despair at that. No point in resisting, no thought of escape, no hope at all. The lucky ones were the ugly girls, who were left behind.
“The soldiers were preoccupied for the time being with slaughtering my countrymen and capturing our land, so we were not immediately put to the intended use. As we trailed along with the troops I flaunted my youthful charms and attracted the eye of one of the leading officers in the unit. He requisitioned me as his exclusive punchboard and took me under his protection. It was a reprieve from the worst fate facing me, but still I was brokenhearted and dared not complain nor even show distress. It is the world’s most demanding school of acting, but I mastered what I needed to do despite my silent tears. I counted my blessings that I did not share the plight of the other girls, who served as public toilets for those depraved little beasts. Once the Jap conquest was complete and permanent garrisons set up, they were on continuous call for hours on end, every day, for the pleasures of those disgusting apes with their bathtub-stopper little dinkies. It ruined them for life; some girls want so far as to disfigure themselves or commit suicide rather than continue.
“I at least had some privacy and time off. I pleased my protector and busied myself in his quarters to enhance his comfort, which I hoped would cement his attachment to me. I succeeded in that, and when he was promoted to Imperial Army Headquarters in Manila he took me along. He delighted in buying me clothes and jewelry to enhance my beauty, and he enjoyed showing me off in the base social life, such as it was. Not only that, but I made myself useful and soon was given run of the camp. This enabled me to observe many comings and goings, of both Japs and their Filipino collaborators.
“When the Americans returned and threw the Japs out, I was judged to be a collaborator myself because I had avoided suffering; other comfort women who had not had my luck were only too eager to denounce me to the post-war examiners. They threw me in jail for several years—paying for my sins, as if any of it was my intention or I got any fun out of it. In addition to the standard maltreatment of Philippine prisons I was repeatedly raped by guards who revenged themselves on the Japs by the pleasures they stole from me. It was there I caught the diseases and afflictions that destroyed my looks and turned me into the wreck you see before you. Say what you will, the Japs at least adhered to standards of personal hygiene.
“By the time they released me I had reached my 20s and was already ruined both physically and socially. However, not ruined mentally. My brain functioned perfectly well, and I reasoned that, since powerful men are all the same the world over, there will always be a market for the temporary affections of beautiful women. I had learned something about organization and business from my contact with the military and the black marketers in Manila (for where do you think I procured delicacies and treats for my protector?). Former black marketers and undetected collaborators were succeeding in post-War Manila and rising to political power, and I knew many of them, so it was easy enough to build a client list. With Marcos, corrupt wealth and easy money became plentiful. As for girls, village poverty drives them by droves into my welcoming arms, and I weed out all but the most exquisitely beautiful and charming and put them through finishing school. The results of years of dedicated toil and effort you see before you—this house, my baubles, all of it. What I am wearing is nothing. I can show you jewels, fine clothing, that even Imelda Marcos would envy. One might ask whether it was worth it. All I can say is, life dealt me a rotten hand, and I played my cards as well as anyone could.” This last observation with a resigned shrug.
The spoils of war—every war. What do you say after a story like that? Where do you even look? In her eyes? At her hands? At the ceiling? At the floor? Out the window?
“I know what you are thinking, Mr. Philco,” she said, “and do not let your thoughts be troubled. It happened. It could have been worse. I survived it, prospered and have reconciled myself to the past. Let us turn to present matters. I asked you to come see me because of Luz’s reports. I have served many visiting bankers and businessmen from America, and you are very different from the others. The questions you asked Luz and the places you had her show you tipped me off, but insisting on paying for it yourself, that was the final clue. No American businessman ever turned down Imelda Marcos’s freebies. So I think you may have other interests in Manila than making loans to Ferdinand Marcos. I do not wish to pry too deeply, but I was wondering if there is some way I could help you.”
“I take it your opinion of Ferdinand Marcos is not very high?” I asked.
She shook her head slowly and coughed out a bitter laugh. “My opinion of that viper? Have you met him?”
“Only briefly. Mostly he told me about his war exploits.”
“Oh yes, his famous war exploits. He has lived on those lies now for 40 years. I will bet he was wearing his chest full of medals. He bought every single one of them and conjured his commendations and awards out of thin air and whole cloth. His chief war exploit was running a very profitable black market operation. With my own eyes I saw him wearing a Japanese uniform, more than once. Whether he betrayed his own countrymen who were fighting for Philippine freedom, I do not know, but I do know that no battlefield ever benefited from his heroics. His heroics were confined to as many bedrooms he could breach. I will not say whether he ever saw the inside of mine, not to protect his reputation, but to protect mine. By the time he married Imelda he’d had several mistresses and fathered a dozen children … whom Imelda refuses to acknowledge.
“Except that he is now too sick to be a tomcat, nothing has changed,” she continued. “He still lives on lies and crooked dealings. Look, look here.” She maneuvered her chair over to a desk, picked up a little packet, rolled back and stretched out a claw to hand it to me. It was a little sheaf of crisp new currency.
“He’s up to his old tricks, printing money to buy another election,” she said. “A government official paid one of my girls with these. Look at the serial numbers.”
I did. They were the same on all eight bills.
“Ferdinand must be getting demented,” she said. “Or desperate. He knows whom to bribe, whom to promise and whom to threaten, but he’s never been this amateurish before. It’s a disgrace. So, Mr. Philco, I do not know what your true business here is, but if it has anything to do with ridding
us of that weasel and his greedy wife, I know of things I could do to help.”
And me sent here by the CIA to help Marcos stay in office? “Auntie, as you know, we investment bankers are very discreet, every bit as much as you are. I certainly appreciate your offer of help, and I will keep it in mind. Luz has been very helpful to me already.”
“She is a good girl,” said Auntie. “I pray she will soon be able to leave this business. I have done my best to spare her the worst of it. She probably told you that she dreams of marrying a big spender. Having met you, I do not think you are that man, but perhaps you and I can trade favors nevertheless. I must bid you goodbye now, Mr. Philco. I have other business to take care of, and my energy is low these days. It was a pleasure to meet you, and feel free to call on me at any time.” With that she poked a button on the arm of her chair and the maid stepped into the room. “Please show Mr. Philco out,” she said.
*
I’d been meeting more people lately than a WalMart door-geezer, but the next meet-and-greet I would gladly have passed up, had I any choice. They banged on my door just as I buttoning my shirt to go down to breakfast. It was six Filipinos, taller and bulkier than typical, dressed in sharp suits and designer shades. Their attitude didn’t suggest law enforcement; rather, they came on like they were the law, and they barged into my room like they owned it, which in a sense they did. “Mr. Philco,” said the thug in charge, “Imelda would like to talk to you. Right now. You must come with us.”
How could I refuse? Three of them escorted me away, while the other three stayed behind to toss my room.
The Fifth Part of the Story
One thing I’ve observed about beautiful women’s faces: When they’re happy, they’re very, very pretty, but when they’re infuriated, they can be butt ugly. Whether it’s the contrast that shocks, or something about facial structure that shifts with mood, I can’t say—maybe a plastic surgeon can give you an answer to that one.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 36
