When my grandfather Whitman died, everyone expected me to cry, but I didn’t. My Lola Narcisa went back to Davao after the funeral, to sell her house and pick up the rest of her things. My mother Dolores picked me up at school the day it happened. I knew something was wrong because she was alone in the car, except for our driver Macario. Where was Lorenza? My mother was wearing black, and her eyes were swollen from crying. He died in his sleep, she said, looking out the window and avoiding my gaze. He never woke up. It was a good thing—he didn’t suffer, she was sure of it. All the American doctors were sure of it. Everything started to change after his death. My mother fell in love with the Brazilian ambassador, Jaime Oliveira. My father got promoted to Vice President In Charge Of Acquisitions for Severo Alacran’s conglomerate, International Coconut Investments. Intercoco, for short. He was jokingly referred to as Severo Alacran’s head bugaw or chief pimp by Pucha’s father, my joker of an uncle, Agustin. My father thought it was funny, but no one else in the family did.
Part of my father’s job includes playing golf from dawn until dusk every Saturday, and Sundays after Mass, gambling for high stakes with his boss Severo Alacran, the nearsighted Judge Peter Ramos, Congressman Diosdado “Cyanide” Abad, Dr. Ernesto Katigbak, and occasionally even General Nicasio Ledesma. Congressman Abad cheats to win, and doesn’t care who knows it. The caddies are in cahoots with the flamboyant politician and Severo Alacran, who is less blatant about his cheating. The Congressman is president of the board at Monte Vista, and Severo Alacran is Severo Alacran; both men are therefore untouchable.
My mother Dolores is indifferent to golf and the women like Dr. Emilia Katigbak who play it on the women’s course, a segregated area back there somewhere behind the club. My mother only comes to the Monte Vista to sit in the clubhouse dining room and watch Jaime Oliveira playing tennis on the courts below her window. She always sits at the same table, with Mrs. Goldenberg the American consul’s wife, Mimi Pelayo, or Cherry Pie Lozano’s mother.
(Nestor finally strolls in with someone else, some skinny mestizo daw, some boy in tight pants, according to Max. Doña Booding jumps up from her chair, knocking over the potted palm and spilling cake and halo-halo sundae all over the carpet…She starts screaming at the top of her lungs: “I want my money back! I want my Rolex! My car! My apartment!” The orchestra keeps right on playing—alam mo na, no one in the Manila Hotel would dare to stop Doña Booding! She screams and claws at Nestor, she rips the Rolex off his wrist, she curses his dead mother…Then she accuses him of being a bakla—that’s right, in front of the whole world…)
My father is a privileged member and stockholder in the sprawling country club, where the magnificent greens are rumored to be infested with cobras, and the high-beamed ceilings of the open-air dining pavilions are a nesting-place for bats. Uncle Agustin claims the bats are useful for keeping away mosquitoes, and the snakes are useful for keeping away Japanese tourists. Uncle Agustin hates the Japanese, and is not a member of the Monte Vista. He is a frequent guest of my father’s, who also secured him a job with Intercoco. When Uncle Agustin gambled away his inheritance, my father went to Severo Alacran and begged him to hire his older brother. Fortunately, Severo Alacran repays favors. Though he was well aware of Uncle Agustin’s abrasive personality, a job was especially created for him, and he became Associate Vice President in Charge of Shuffling Papers at the Quezon City branch of Intercoco. It is a bogus position which pays him enough to maintain a modest bungalow and two hardworking servants who shop, cook, clean, launder, garden, chauffeur, and look after his lazy, demanding children. “Nothing to be ashamed of!” Uncle Agustin once declared to my father, “We have everything we need.”
My father knows perfectly well his brother resents him for all he’s done. It doesn’t matter. We spend every Saturday together—Pucha’s family and mine. Pucha and I come home from Jojo’s beauty parlor, our nails filed and painted “Tangerine Tango” or “Jungle Red.” We shut ourselves in my dismal bedroom, surrounded by copies of Celebrity Pinoy magazine and trays of food. It’s a dead weekend for the social butterfly Pucha. No parties to attend, no boys panting on the telephone. She’s been punished by her mother for giving Boomboom Alacran her valuable pearl ring, which Boomboom wears dangling from a chain around his fat neck. Pucha got the idea from an Elvis Presley song. While Tita Florence is pleased by the attention her daughter is getting from an Alacran, she’s no fool—Pucha looks older than her age, but she’s still quite a few years younger than Boomboom. Tita Florence is determined to preserve Pucha’s precious virginity.
My mother and Tita Florence are having merienda in my mother’s sitting room. When my father and Uncle Agustin finish their golf, they’ll come home and we’ll all sit down to one of my mother’s lavish Saturday night dinners. Pucha’s brother Mikey and my brother Raul will show up just in time to eat—they always do, they’re like animals, they can smell food from miles away.
(How should I know? Nestor was a nobody then, that’s why…Only Max remembers. Nestor stood there, cool as cool daw, then unzipped his pants; “I owe you nothing,” he said, taking out his titing and waving it at Doña Booding and all the people watching in the lobby. “I paid for everything with this.” Then he stuffed it back in his pants and walked away.)
My father orders us to call Severo and Isabel Alacran “Tito” and “Tita,” as if we’re related by blood. “We’re related by money,” Uncle Agustin snickers, proud of his connection, however marginal, to the king. My cousin Pucha is just like her father; she leaps at every chance to call Severo Alacran “uncle,” says it loud enough for everyone to hear. She flirts with him in her coy, petulant way. I’ve caught the old man looking at her, sizing her up slowly. I can tell he finds my silly cousin desirable; her eagerness amuses him. I’ve told her it’s disgusting, she should lie down on a bed of money and die, the way she acts these days. She pisses me off so much, sometimes I’m embarrassed to be seen with her—wiggling and strutting all over the place. It’s a wonder she’s still a virgin. “Ay, prima!” Pucha laughs, feigning shock at my sour observations, “for such a baby, you have a dirty mind.” “Severo Alacran keeps staring at your boobs,” I complain, “and you keep leading him on!” Pucha actually looks pleased. “Rio, take my advice,” she says, in that condescending tone of hers. “Go to confession and stop being so corny.”
(Max is Max but I believe him when it comes to Nestor’s kalokohan. You know what happened to Doña Booding? How she gave up everything for God and took to calling herself La Sultana and telling fortunes? The boy with Nestor? How should I know? Dios ko, you ask too many questions. He’s probably dead, according to Max…And Nestor—puwede ba, just look at him! Wala nang sex appeal—kawawa naman, it’s Nestor’s turn to have to pay for it now.)
Sometimes Pucha and I go swimming at the club. We go Saturdays after lunch, or Sundays we’ll go have merienda—eat German hot dogs so long and thick Pucha can’t stop giggling. The waiters stare at her and grin, it’s awful—everything reminds Pucha of sex. We put on our bathing suits and lounge by the pool deck after eating, so Pucha can scan the horizon for the arrival of Boomboom Alacran and his foulmouthed friends. As soon as she spots them, Pucha starts posing. Pucha doesn’t really know how to swim and thinks bathing suits have been created for the sole purpose of showing off her body. I jump in the pool and swim as far from them as I can, relieved that my job of keeping my ambitious cousin company is over.
The sign by the Monte Vista pool reads:
NO YAYAS ALLOWED TO SWIM
Which means that when Congressman Abad’s daughter Peachy was five years old, her yaya Ana had no business jumping in the pool to save her from drowning. Ana jumped in anyway, dressed in her spotless white uniform and matching white plastic slippers. She pulled Peachy out of the pool before the stupid lifeguard even noticed anything was wrong. My mother told us all about it—she was sitting right there by the pool and would’ve jumped in herself except that like Pucha, my mother can’t swim.
Spri
kitik
HERE WE ARE AT dinner, the Gonzaga clan on a Saturday night. My bombastic Uncle Agustin goes on about the General, complaining endlessly about the day’s golf game, the money he lost because Congressman Abad cheated and no one did anything about it. It’s the same old story, every time Tito Agustin loses a game. He’d rather blame it on someone else than admit he’s a shitty golfer—the butt of many jokes at the Monte Vista.
Pacita serves us peppery sweet lechon kawali, grilled bangus, and her specialty, an Ilocano-inspired pinakbet with bitter-melon, squash, okra, and stringbeans stewed with cloves of garlic, bits of pork fat, and salty fermented shrimp bagoong. Pucha won’t eat pinakbet, she says it gives her bad breath. Neither will Uncle Agustin. They ask Pacita to open and heat up a can of Heinz Pork’n’Beans instead. Pucha loves her canned beans because they’re gooey with molasses, but most of all because they’re expensive and imported. We eat in happy silence, our insides swimming in sugar, grease, and vinegar.
The ancient ceiling fan squeaks, twirling at medium speed. Between mouthfuls, Uncle Agustin predicts monsoon rain, a disastrous early typhoon season. “It’s much too hot to go on this way—we need relief.” Aida and Lorenza stand by with homemade contraptions the gardener Godofredo has constructed: long wooden sticks with newspaper streamers attached to the ends, designed to fan away flying insects the way a carabao or horse flicks its tail.
“I can’t imagine him doing it,” Tita Florence says, about the Congressman. “He’s such a darling man, so kind and charitable, so darling—are you sure, Agustin?” She shakes her head slowly at the awful thought—she shakes her head slowly and eats more than anyone else at the table. A dainty predator, she devours tiny portions bit by bit, chewing methodically with a rapturous look on her face. Uncle Agustin looks at his wife with murder in his eyes. He says nothing, then turns to my father and begins recounting Severo Alacran’s latest escapade with some foreigner’s wife. “He’s fond of her red hair,” Uncle Agustin says, winking obscenely. Mikey and Raul grin; Pucha kicks me under the table. Tita Florence is aghast, and puts down her fork and spoon long enough to say: “Agustin, por dios—haven’t I warned you? You will learn wisdom on your deathbed and then—it will be much too late.”
After dinner we drag ourselves to the adjoining living room for coffee, cigars, and Spanish brandy. “We’re out of French cognac, I’m afraid,” my mother apologizes. “Excellent, excellent. The French are overrated! Spanish brandy is actually the best in the world,” Uncle Agustin says, anxiously waiting as my father pours him a double. Pucha and I sit next to each other on the rattan couch, drowsy and overfed. “Johnny Walker Black, on the rocks for me,” my cousin Mikey says to Aida. My father gives him a curious glance. “Miguel. I didn’t know you drank—since when?” Mikey shrugs, avoiding his mother’s worried look. Emboldened by Mikey, my brother asks for a beer and is handed a TruCola by my mother instead. “Shit,” he mutters, under his breath. “Excuse me, Raul—what did you say?” My mother asks sweetly.
“Genuine ba ito, or putok?” Mikey asks Aida when she returns with his drink. It is a reference to the common practice of selling deadly mixtures of rubbing alcohol and brown tea in brand-name bottles as imported liquor. Aida is confused by my insolent cousin’s tone. She answers in a meek voice. “Johnny Lumalakad, ho.” “Genuine ba ito, or putok?” Mikey repeats, growing impatient. He addresses her in a loud voice, as if she were retarded. Aida’s face flushes crimson and I want to leave the room, which suddenly makes me feel stifled. Raul joins in the fun. “That Johnny Walker is sprikitik, boss!” Mikey cracks up. My mother rescues Aida from further embarrassment. “Never mind, Aida. The boys are just teasing—you can go now and have your dinner. Just ask Fely or Pacita to make more coffee for us.” Relieved, Aida hurries out of the room. My mother turns to my father. “I don’t get it, Freddie. What’s the difference between putok and sprikitik? Don’t they both mean fake?”
My father thinks for a moment. “You might say Congressman Abad sprikitiks when he plays golf, but General Ledesma rewards his army with cases of putok liquor.”
Tita Florence fans herself with a woven pye-pye. “Dios mio, Freddie. What are you making bola-bola about?”
“It’s a known fact, Florence,” Tito Agustin informs her. Tita Florence rolls her eyes in disbelief, fanning herself with renewed vigor.
“Papi,” Mikey says to his father, “they say the soldiers don’t know the difference, and they’re grateful! They say that’s why the soldiers are so loyal to the General. He gives them cases and cases of putok labeled Dewar’s Scotch, or Johnny Walker. The putok is so terrible, their guts rot and burn, and they wake up with killer hangovers. They say that’s why Ledesma’s men stay mean-spirited and ready to kill—” My cousin Mikey says all this with admiration. My brother looks impressed. Pucha leans over to whisper in my ear. “This is boring. I think I’m going to vomit.”
“The General is from a good family,” Tito Agustin says to my mother. “Do you remember the Ledesmas from Tarlac?” My mother shakes her head. Tita Florence puts down her fan to correct her husband. “Wrong, Agustin, as usual. Nicasio is the outside son of Don Amado Avila and the laundress Catalina. I know because my mother is from the same town as the Avilas—”
My mother’s eyes widen. “You mean he’s actually Senator Avila’s half-brother?”
“And the president’s former chauffeur,” Tita Florence nods triumphantly. “That’s why the General hates the Senator so much.”
Uncle Agustin looks irritated. “You’re all wrong! Severo once told me that the Ledesmas and the Avilas are cousins, from feuding families in Tarlac.”
We are-all ears—it’s better than any episode of Love Letters, and even Pucha perks up.
“What about those camps?” my brother Raul suddenly asks.
“What camps?” My father is annoyed. Tita Florence and my mother seem perplexed, while Pucha looks bored. Uncle Agustin keeps drinking.
“The camps,” Raul repeats. “The General runs the main one, di ba?” He turns to my father. “You know—for subversives. Senator Avila’s always denouncing them—he calls them torture camps.”
“Senator Avila,” Uncle Agustin groans. “Por favor, Freddie—how about another drink?”
“Senator Avila has no proof. It’s those foreign newspapers again—”
“American sensationalism,” Uncle Agustin agrees.
“Does anyone want more coffee?” my mother wants to know.
“How about you, Agustin?” Tita Florence gives my uncle a meaningful look. Uncle Agustin ignores her.
“Boomboom Alacran went to the main camp, just to see for himself. Di ba, Mikey? You told me,” Raul says. Mikey nods.
“It’s right there, a few kilometers outside Manila. Looks like an ordinary army barracks daw, but if you’re ever arrested—” Mikey gives us an exaggerated shiver. “It’s true,” he insists, “Boomboom tells me everything.”
“Boomboom’s full of shit,” Uncle Agustin says, smiling. He lights a fresh cigar.
“AGUSTIN!” Tita Florence’s hand flies to her watermelon breasts in a gesture of dismay. “Your language—the children!”
“All the Alacrans are full of shit,” my father adds. “Severo Alacran built his empire on shit: bullshit.” The men can’t stop laughing, including my brother. He feels extremely grown-up, I can tell.
My father leaves to make one of his important phone calls in his private study. It is past ten o’clock. My mother watches him close the door to his study with a peculiar look on her face. I am the only one who seems to notice; everyone else is busy chattering or getting drunk. “Would anyone care for coffee?” my mother asks wearily. “No thank you, Dolores—that’s the third time you’ve asked!” Tita Florence says. She starts to get up from her chair, smoothing the wrinkles on her rayon skirt. “Come along, Agustin—it’s late.” Uncle Agustin starts to say something to her then thinks the better of it. He gets up slowly, a satisfied smirk on his face. “A lovely evening, Dolores—you’re
the best hostess in town! Isn’t she the best, Florence?” My Tita Florence is silent. Uncle Agustin barely avoids crashing through the furniture as he makes his way to the foyer. “Mikey,” he barks, “go find that sister of yours! What’s she doing in the bathroom? Putting on more makeup?”
I dutifully kiss one of Tita Florence’s rouged cheeks. She smells like garlic and “Evening in Paris.” For the first time in the entire evening, Tita Florence focuses on me. “And how is your Lola Narcisa these days, Rio?” She pats me on the head.
Mikey leads a sullen Pucha back into the foyer where we all stand, waiting uneasily for my father to finish his mysterious phone call and join us in saying good-night. Pucha signals me with her eyebrows, then whispers she’ll call me first thing in the morning. We’ll go over the night’s tsismis, the juicy gossip that is the center of our lives. If the laundress Catalina is really the General’s mother, then who is Apolinaria Cuevas? Who is the red-haired foreigner’s wife Tito Severo is fucking? “Shit,” Pucha will say, impressed. “Did you hear the way my father and your father both said shit?”
Her Eminent Ascent into Heaven
ON BOUGAINVILLEA ROAD, LOCATED within one of the posh Makati subdivisions patrolled by men in blue uniforms, a jeep full of restless soldiers is parked at the top of General Nicasio Ledesma’s hilltop driveway. The soldiers smoke and laugh softly among themselves; it is very late, after all, and they know enough not to draw attention to themselves by making too much noise. The youngest complains of being hungry. “Should I knock on the back door and tell the old woman to bring us some food?” he asks his companions. “Sige, ’bro—wake her up,” one of them tells him. Another soldier climbs out of the jeep, yawns and stretches his arms, then saunters up to a wall of the General’s windowless villa to take a piss. The soldiers find it hard to stay awake. It has been a long, uneventful night, with only the vibrating cicadas filling the sultry silence. In the encyclopedia-lined study of the fortresslike house, General Ledesma has been in conference with his protégé Pepe Carreon for hours.
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