Upstairs, the General’s wife tosses and turns on her spartan bed, a regulation army cot she once asked her husband to send over from one of the barracks. The General found her request perfectly understandable, in light of her devotion to an austere, forbidding God and her earnest struggles to earn sainthood through denial. A former piano teacher and distant cousin of the General, Leonor Bautista was forced to marry Nicasio Ledesma by her elderly parents. After much initial resistance and the intervention of her parish priest, Leonor Bautista succumbed and married the General. She found life with the much-decorated war hero undemanding and rather tranquil, except for the strangers frequently trooping in and out of her house. She is not expected to accompany the General to the social functions he attends; for this she is eternally grateful. The General seems to want nothing from her at all after their marriage. He showed no reaction when the reclusive Leonor immediately asked for her own bedroom down the hall from where he slept. “The smaller the better,” Leonor said. “Leave the walls unpainted. I want no air conditioning, no electric fans, no mirrors. I would like to be as far away from you as possible,” she added, with a cryptic smile. It was their wedding night, one of the rare occasions when Leonor spoke to her husband directly. From then on, Leonor Ledesma divided her life evenly between “good days” and “bad.”
Good days are spent collecting and sorting old clothes, toys, medicine, and canned goods for the Sisters Of Mercy Orphanage. “Bad” she spends locked in her narrow room, fasting on water and praying prostrate on the cold cement floor to her beloved Santo Niño statue, a three-foot tall Holy Child dressed in a red velvet robe embroidered with real pearls and semiprecious gems. Every few months, the General’s wife retreats to a Carmelite nunnery in Baguio for rigorous meditation and more prayer in an atmosphere heavy with imposed silence. The General encourages her spiritual odysseys and asks her to pray for him. “The Lord listens to you and only you,” he tells her. “Beg the Lord’s forgiveness on my behalf.” Leonor Ledesma gives her husband a pitying look, almost tempted to speak. After her parents die, the General arranges for her piano to be brought to Manila by army truck, but she refuses to acknowledge its presence in her living room. In frustration, the General finally donates the dusty, out-of-tune piano to the Sisters Of Mercy Orphanage, which pleases Leonor immensely. She writes him a note, which is brought to him on his breakfast tray by the gray-haired servant Hortensia: “You have atoned for some of your sins, Nicasio—but only some. The Sisters were grateful for your gift, as were the poor children of the hospicio. I will make a novena in your honor this Wednesday.”
Leonor Ledesma sees her husband as a curious toad disturbing the solitude of her tropical fortress with endless midnight meetings. “Who are those men outside making noise?” she asks Hortensia.
“His soldiers, Señora,” Hortensia replies, “only his soldiers.”
“Are we at war again?”
Hortensia shakes her head. “Hindi, ho.”
“Tell them they should be quiet or go home!” Leonor Ledesma pauses before asking her next question. “And who is that bloodsucker always eating at my dinner table?”
Hortensia wants to laugh, but knows better. “Si Mister Carreon, Señora.”
“The eldest son?” Leonor Ledesma has always suspected the General’s bastards are hiding somewhere in the villa.
Hortensia sighs, bracing herself for the confrontation she knows will follow. “Señora, you have no children.”
“I know that. I’m not a madwoman like they say—you’re blind, Hortensia! You can’t see what’s right in front of you!” Leonor Ledesma lowers her trembling voice. “It doesn’t matter to me, any of his children. I wish they’d just crawl out from under the sofa, say good-night, and leave! They’ve desecrated this house long enough.”
“Yes, Señora.” Hortensia’s stony expression remains unchanged. She believes the General is too much of a cold fish to have any bastards—unless the tsismis was true and he was making one with that movie star Lolita Luna.
“Would you sing this hymn with me?” Leonor Ledesma asks, her tone softening. She takes the older woman’s hand. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…” Hortensia hesitates before joining in, praying silently to her own God to rescue her from another unbearable night with her proselytizing mistress.
Much later, after several hymns and an interminable rosary led by the General’s wife in a halting voice, an exhausted Hortensia bids her mistress goodnight. The General’s wife falls into a fitful sleep, grinding her teeth in anguish. She wakes with a start, her eyes frantically trying to make out objects in the dark. Aside from her bed, the only piece of furniture in her narrow cell is a wooden chair on which her threadbare robe is draped. She convinces herself no one else is in the room, that the Santo Niño is watching over her. She breathes deeply as she lies back down. She reproaches herself for not demanding that Hortensia bring her mat and sleep on the floor next to her bed. Leonor Ledesma’s eyes open and close, then open again. The low ceiling reminds her of the lid of a coffin, the exact shape of her tiny bedroom. “How fitting,” her husband once said.
She lies in the suffocating dark, waiting for the ceiling to fall and seal her away forever. She imagines that being smothered might be a sweet death; she waits for this death to claim her every night. This yearning for a sudden, painless death is her most selfish desire, her greatest sin. Father Manuel has warned her about this many times, in confession.
The General’s wife, out of sheer habit, recites the “Hail Mary” in a whisper. Outside her screened window, the leaves of an acacia tree rustle in the wind, lulling her back gently to the red landscape of her dreams.
President William McKinley Addresses a Delegation of Methodist Churchmen, 1898
I THOUGHT FIRST WE would take only Manila; then Luzon; then other islands, perhaps, also. I walked the floor of the White House night after night until midnight; and I am not ashamed to tell you, gentlemen, that I went down on my knees and prayed Almighty God for light and guidance more than one night…And one night it came to me this way—I don’t know how it was, but it came: one, that we could not give them back to Spain—that would be cowardly and dishonorable; two, that we could not turn them over to France or Germany—our commercial rivals in the Orient—that would be bad business and discreditable; three, that we could not leave them to themselves—they were unfit for self-government—and they would soon have anarchy and misrule over there worse than Spain’s was; and four, that there was nothing left for us to do but to take them all, and to educate the Filipinos, and uplift and civilize and Christianize them, and by God’s grace do the very best we could by them, as our fellow men for whom Christ also died. And then I went to bed, and went to sleep and slept soundly.
Heroin
JOEY SANDS. DO YOU like it? Like a crooner, don’t you think? That’s where I got my last name. “The Sands.” A casino in Las Vegas. This old drunk fuck was telling me about it. “HEY, little pretty black boy …ain’t seen nothin’ like you since I left Detroit…”
He couldn’t get over it, touched me when he got the chance. Did I have a daddy? Was my daddy an American? Shit, I laughed back at him, imitating his drawl: SHEE-IT, man, I said. Mocking him. You must be kidding! Man, I don’t even have a mother. Laying it on real thick, so he’d feel sorry for me.
He started coming around CocoRico all the time. I’d be at the bar up front, checking things out. Actually, he wasn’t bad looking. When he wasn’t drunk, his face and eyes didn’t droop as much, and you’d notice his big body and muscular arms, pretty strong and firm for a man his age. I’d always act surprised to see him.
That was before the disco craze, before I talked Andres into hiring me as a DJ for the back room. “What do I need you for?” Andres used to say, pointing to the jukebox. It seemed like forever before Andres let me give it a shot, and look at him now: he’s making money, the place is jammed until all hours of the night—even girls want to come here and dance, the music’s so good.
&nb
sp; “You’re kind of young, aren’t you?” the American once observed. But I could tell he was fascinated, just like all the rest of them. Joey Taboo: my head of tight, kinky curls, my pretty hazel eyes, my sleek brown skin. “Where’s the little GI baby?” he’d ask Andres, if I wasn’t around. Andres would shrug in that bored way of his. “He’ll be here any moment now, I’m sure.” The American would buy more drinks, sitting close by the door. Sometimes I’d get there, let him buy me dinner. Sometimes I’d just stay away.
“Call me Neil,” he said, his eyes fixed on me in that sad, funny way of his. It was one of his sober days. “NEIL. What kind of name is that?” I loved making fun of him.
“Good sport,” he’d laugh with me, jabbing at his own chest with one of his large hands.
I spit on the floor in contempt. “Man, you don’t have to talk to me like I don’t know anything! Puwede ba—good sport,” I mimic, rolling my eyes. “What do you think this is? The Lone Ranger and Tonto?”
I sulk, look away from him. Scan the room for a pretty face. Make him feel real bad.
Embarrassed, he looks lost. “Joey, I’m sorry.” He means it. I like that best. I could make him do anything.
I keep at it for just a little while longer. “Man, I’m no savage.” When he looks like he’s going to cry, I stop. Touch his leg under the table. Soothe him with my voice. “NEIL,” I tease, gently now. “Neil Sedaka—ahhh…”
One time he asks me a favor. “For my buddy—” Some younger guy named Phil. I didn’t like Phil as soon as I met him. “Phil wants to see a live show—” Phil is standing there, next to Neil. Staring at me and not saying anything.
“You mean a sex show?” I take my time drinking my beer, ignoring Phil’s piercing gaze.
Yeah, that’s right. One of those…” Neil is uncomfortable. Andres stands behind the bar, within earshot. He seems absorbed in the magazine he’s reading, another article about his rich cousin Alacran. But I know Andres—one ear’s cocked in our direction.
“You want boys, girls, or both? Maybe you want children?”
“How much?” It’s the first and only time Phil opens his mouth.
“Depends,” I say. I’ll negotiate with Uncle privately, take my cut.
“We have a car,” Neil says.
We drive down Roxas Boulevard slowly, looking for the street. It’s early, around eleven at night. I sit in the front seat with Neil, giving directions. Across the boulevard I can see Manila Bay, black and still. “Is that your ship?” I point to the ghostly carrier floating in the middle of the dark sea. The men don’t respond.
Uncle’s waiting for us with Emiliano the night watchman, hired by Congressman Abad to guard his property from vandals and thieves. Uncle deals with me directly, talking in Tagalog and ignoring the two white men. He orders Emiliano to stay outside to watch the car, after I tell Neil to give Emiliano some money.
The abandoned Lido Supper Club is a white building with fake marble columns on the outside. Statues of half-naked nymphs and satyrs hold unlit torches. Uncle ushers us in through the back door. It’s cavernous inside, and eerie. Everything’s been left as it was—dozens of little tables and chairs, all with stained white tablecloths still on them, ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, empty bottles of San Miguel beer. The enormous dance floor is tiled with blue and white mosaics. There is a thick coat of dust on everything we touch.
Uncle looks for the main switch, stumbling and pointing his flashlight at the cobwebs on the walls. Finally he turns on the dim chandelier that hangs in the room. He motions to a table in the front row, facing a large stage. Not too long ago, Johnny Buenaventura and His Amazing Orchestra used to play “The Girl from Ipanema” here. Now, a bare mattress lies dead center, a roll of toilet paper and a bottle of alcohol next to it.
I leave the two Americans at the table, take Uncle aside and tell him what they want. He is gone approximately ten minutes. A skinny young girl enters, followed by a well-built young man, close to my age. She wears a flimsy, loose-fitting dress, her eyes lowered. She is barefoot, and I notice her manicured toenails sharpened to a point, her black nail polish dotted with tiny crescent moons. The young man is also barefoot. He wears khaki pants, nothing else. There are intricate tattoos of spiders and cobwebs up and down his sinewy body. A weeping Madonna is tattooed across his back. He is beautiful. The two Americans sit up in their chairs, attentive now. I stay in the back of the cavernous room, smoking my cigarette in the shadows. This way, I can watch them all, the two Americans, the young girl with her face turned away, the young man with the magnificent tattoos. Uncle has quietly disappeared. When it is over, the young man looks up at the white men while the girl tears off some toilet paper, dabs it in alcohol, and wipes herself off. “Okay, boss?” the young man asks eagerly, grinning at the stunned Americans. “You want us to do that again?”
We are in a room at the Hilton. “You ought to sing,” Neil is saying, “you have a great voice. Good way to make some money, even here in Manila.” I grunt in response. What does he know—I’ve heard all this before. I turn on the giant color TV.
I have just taken a bath and a shower. If the water stayed hot, I’d be in there all day. Afterward I stuff the plastic shower cap and slippers with the Manila Hilton insignia, complimentary robe and two bars of Cashmere Bouquet soap into one of Neil’s SPORTEX shopping bags. He hates it when I do that. “You don’t need to take that cheap shit. I’ll buy you whatever you need…” He just doesn’t understand. I love the newness and cleanness of my little souvenirs, the smell and touch of the glossy plastic. I would live in a hotel room forever, if I could.
“I’m hungry,” I say to him. “Call room service.”
We are sprawled on the king-size bed. It’s two in the afternoon—Tawag Ng Tanghalan is on. A young girl is singing “Evergreen.” She is earnest and terrified, but her voice booms out in spite of her, from somewhere inside that frail body. Neil shakes his head in admiration. “Not bad. Wow! She’s not bad at all…”
The TV audience claps and whistles enthusiastically when she finishes the song. She blinks into the camera, startled by their response. She is last week’s winner, and an audience favorite. She stands tensely in front of the cheering crowd, fidgeting with her hands. I can’t bear to watch her, it’s too painful. Her awkwardness makes me angry. “Look at her—how stupid!”
“Poor thing,” Neil sighs, “she needs to be rescued—quick.”
Impatient, I make a face. There he goes again, upset: he identifies with everyone and everything. Probably why he likes to stay drunk. I can’t be like that. If I was on TV, I’d be the coolest guy. Mister Heartbreak, talaga: the one that got away. Cool, calm, collected.
Lopito appears on the TV screen, waving to the noisy audience. Before he can even thank her, the young girl rushes off the stage. Lopito throws up his arms in mock exasperation. He gestures toward her departing back. “HOY, GIVE HER A BIG HAND NAMAN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! LET’S HEAR IT FOR CONNIE LIM, OUR REIGNING CHAMPION! THE BARBRA STREISAND OF THE PHILIPPINES!”
Before announcing the next contestant, Lopito rattles off the different prizes: a twelve-inch Motorola color television, a clock-radio, a year’s supply of Magnolia Ice Cream. The grand prize is a screen test and a chance to appear in Mabuhay Studios’ next musical, starring everyone’s favorite sweethearts, Nestor Noralez and Barbara Villanueva. Lopito reminds us, once again, that Nestor and Barbara were discovered on his show. “DAT WAS MANY MOONS AGO, DI BA?” The audience in the studio cheers.
“Why don’t you audition for this?” Neil asks me for the hundredth time. “You’d be great—” He can’t be serious. I give him one of my withering looks.
“Come on, Neil. Call room service—I’m starving to death!” I’m starting to get irritable.
The next contestant is a young guy named Romeo something. Nice biceps, pretty cute, but corny. I poke Neil in the ribs, playfully. “Not bad—huh Neil? Your type…Look at those thighs and those lips!” Neil ignores me. “What a hairdo!” I moan
, pretending to faint.
Neil gets up from the bed. “What do you want to eat?”
Romeo whoever-he-is starts belting out “Feelings,” only he sounds like he’s saying “Peelings.” He’s trying very hard, and he’s making me sick. No karisma, as Andres would say. I switch the channel. There’s an old black and white movie with Leopoldo Salcedo fighting the Japs. I lean back against the pillows, my arms behind my head. My tight black curls are still wet, framing my face. Neil is looking at me, ready to dial room service. “Well?” He’s annoyed, I can tell.
I am still naked. We both pretend not to notice how hard I’m getting. “Cheeseburger deluxe,” I say, dreamily. “French fries with ketchup…Mango ice cream…and a Coke.”
When Neil got stationed back in the States, he sent me a postcard: JOEY SANDS c/o Andres Alacran “COCORICO” 4461 Balimbing Street Ermita Manila Philippines.
“JOEY: I thought you’d appreciate this. Wish you were here….”
The postcard was from Las Vegas: a color photo of the Sands Casino, with Sammy Davis Jr.’s name in lights. NOW APPEARING.
“You got mail,” Andres said, handing me the postcard. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw it away…Where’ve you been? Joey—you can’t just not show up for work without calling me!”
With that buddha-face of his, Andres watched as I held the card in my hands, pretending I could read. “Let me,” he finally said, snatching the card. When he finished reading it to me, I smiled. Put the card back in my jeans pocket. Carried it around for days after that, maybe months. I don’t remember now.
Dogeaters Page 8
