The moment Cora asks her first question, Daisy seizes the opportunity to publicly denounce the beauty pageant as a farce, a giant step backward for all women. She quotes her father and her mother, she goes on and on, she never gives the visibly horrified Cora a chance to respond. She accuses the First Lady of furthering the cause of female delusions in the Philippines. The segment is immediately blacked out by waiting censors.
Everyone in the country is elated by the new and unexpected scandal. Daisy refuses to grant any more interviews. “Hija, you surprise me,” the Senator compliments his daughter. “She doesn’t surprise me at all,” his wife says.
Daisy becomes a sensation, almost as popular as her father. The rock band Juan Tamad records a song dedicated to her, “Femme Fatale.” Banned on the radio, the song surfaces on a bootleg label, Generik. It is an instant underground hit. Condemned as NPA sympathizers, band members are rounded up by plainclothesmen from the President’s Special Squadron Urban Warfare Unit. They are detained at Camp Dilidili, a brand new complex of buildings with all the best in modern conveniences: hot and cold running water, toilets that flush, and clean, windowless cells for solitary confinement.
A foreign banker named Malcolm Webb calls Daisy on the telephone. “I saw you on television with that gruesome woman,” he says. “Would you like to go out to dinner with me?” Against her better judgment, Daisy immediately says yes. She has never before been out without a chaperone. “How did he get our number?” her mother wants to know. He turns out to be so charming, however, that even the steely professor softens when she meets him. “How can I help but fall in love with your brave daughter?” Malcolm Webb says to Daisy’s mother. “A handsome shark,” Daisy’s father calls him, but he is charmed just like his wife. Daisy is smitten by Malcolm Webb, in spite of tsismis that the playboy banker is an old boyfriend of Lolita Luna’s, and may even be the father of her blue-eyed son.
The furor over Daisy’s TV interview dies down slowly, as other scandals usurp the limelight. Juan Tamad members are released from incarceration on condition that the band never plays again. “That means you can’t play in other bands either,” the General’s tough special assistant informs them. “If I catch any of you in any type of public gathering, and gentlemen—I use that term loosely,” Pepe Carreon pauses for effect, “if I catch any or you even fingering a guitar, I’ll…” He was inventive with his threats, and always polite with his victims. He offered them cigarettes and coffee, even chilled bottles of TruCola. “I am sorry we’re out of straws—you’ll have to drink straight from the bottle,” he apologizes, with a look of genuine concern on his face.
Daisy marries Malcolm Webb in a quiet ceremony with only her family in attendance. She gladly abdicates her title to runner-up Girlie Alacran. There are those who welcome the news of Daisy’s marriage with relief. “She’ll finally settle down,” they predict. “Besides, she’s probably pregnant.” Tabloids publish unsolicited photographs of the storybook couple, dubbing them “The Rebel Princess and Her Playboy.” “How long can this marriage last?” Cora Camacho speculates cattily on Girl Talk.
Hounded in public by autograph seekers and other fans, Daisy Avila retreats once again to the safety of her family home. “Fickle Daisy in Hiding!” is the title of a Celebrity Pinoy item. Malcolm Webb soon tires of the hysteria and no longer finds the publicity useful. He blames his naïve wife for turning his life upside down; she retaliates by asking him to leave her once and for all. Malcolm Webb returns to England. Daisy now becomes the butt of many jokes. ANO BA, CAN’T SHE MAKE UP HER MIND? scream the headlines.
In the Artist’s House
TIRED OF BEING COOPED up in her family’s house for weeks, Daisy decides to visit her cousin Clarita. Daisy and Clarita are like sisters; their mothers are childhood friends and maintain a close relationship, even though their husbands have been feuding off and on for twenty years. “I’ve never trusted him,” Domingo Avila once said about his brother Oscar, “he’d sell his own family down the river for the right price.” Oscar Avila, on the other hand, had this to say when asked about his famous brother: “Fuck a saint who thinks his shit doesn’t stink.”
Clarita’s father was a gambler, a small-time con man oozing with charm, a fussy, handsome man too vain to sweat or dance. When he felt the need to be legitimate, he supported himself and his family with odd jobs he obtained by using his brother’s name. Domingo Avila had washed his hands of him years ago, when Daisy and Clarita were still infants. The Senator was always kind to his niece however, and helped out with her schooling and medical bills whenever necessary. Sometimes Clarita called the Senator “Papa.” There was even a time when Clarita lived with Daisy’s family, right after her father ran off to Pampanga with one of his mistresses and her mother Delia was institutionalized. Clarita moved back to her own home when her father returned and, shortly afterward, her mother was released from the hospital. Clarita’s father swore, for the umpteenth time, he would mend his ways. Everyone knew better.
Clarita Avila began painting when she was six years old. Her Uncle Domingo paid for her sketchpads, her watercolor sets, her charcoal pencils, her brushes. On her twelfth birthday, he bought her a more durable easel, and paid for drawing lessons with the old painter Horacio. Clarita lived for the afternoons spent at the old man’s studio near Mabini. She would later describe her childhood and adolescence as relatively happy times, in spite of everything.
Her mother Delia was a woman who had suffered so much she seemed to be physically shrinking away. She spent long afternoons chatting with her daughter while she painted. Delia Avila would talk about the incessant heat, the oncoming Christmas holidays, and the latest book she was reading. She would describe each chapter as if she were reading the story aloud to an enchanted audience, discussing each character as if they were real people in her life. “Poor Cathy,” she would sigh, going over one of her favorite English novels, “she should really let her feelings show for that pitiful Heathcliff.” She read voraciously anything she could find; she said books helped her maintain some semblance of sanity. Her daughter brought them for her as presents: novels in Spanish and English, anthologies of Tagalog poetry, spy thrillers, westerns, historical romances, and biographies. The Brontë sisters and Jose Rizal were Delia Avila’s current favorites.
Although they were the same age, Daisy Avila sometimes felt younger than her cousin. Perhaps it was her tragic life and her talent that impressed Daisy so about Clarita, Clarita with the waist-length black hair, sallow complexion, stocky body, and twinkling eyes; serene Clarita with the sly sense of humor, who painted shocking miniature landscapes of bright yellow demons with giant erect penises hovering over sleeping women. Perhaps Daisy equated Clarita’s great talent with her suffering. She wasn’t sure, but she knew it was something powerful that drew her away from her own privileged life.
Clarita’s mother was ashamed of her daughter’s images and pretended they didn’t exist. When they talked in Clarita’s studio, Delia Avila’s gaze rested on her daughter’s face or on the wall above her. Clarita’s father was condescending and indifferent. Daisy’s mother the professor was the only one in the family with nerve enough to say, “She may be a genius, but that girl is deeply disturbed.”
Daisy loved Clarita’s pictures. She saw herself lost in the jagged blue landscapes, painlessly smothered in a leering, yellow demon’s embrace. It was that same unsettling feeling, that same shock of recognition she experienced the day she walked into Clarita’s studio and saw Santos Tirador.
With his coarse hair and feral face, he seemed an elegant animal trapped on the lumpy sofa, surrounded by mismatched furniture and Clarita’s lurid canvases. Clarita’s mother, sitting next to him on the sofa wearing the expensive dress Clarita had bought for her, smiled a big smile when Daisy entered the room. Daisy bent to kiss her aunt. Rising from the sofa, the young man held out his hand. Daisy smiled warmly at him. “I’ve come to see Clarita’s new paintings,” she tells her aunt. The young man introduces himself.
“I am Santos, Horacio’s son.” Daisy looks surprised. She turns to her cousin. “You never told me Horacio had a family.” “He didn’t, really,” Clarita retorts, annoyed.
Excerpt from the Only Letter Ever Written by Clarita Avila:
SANTOS IS GOOD, ONE of those rare good men with an unpredictable, exuberant sense of humor …I can tell the poor bastard’s smitten, but who wouldn’t be—with that sweet face of yours? Take care to keep up with him, or stay at least one step ahead. My mother has taught me men always adore women they love in the beginning …Santos is very smart, and because he’s a few years older than you he can teach you things. He hasn’t had our privileges, and whatever education Horacio provided for him was largely improvised. The old man was a miser, and not very generous when it came to his son, who in fact he barely acknowledged…And you’ve never been an intellectual, though your sophistication will get you through…I must warn you—Santos now believes he’s on some sort of mission, which can be very dangerous these days. Do you understand? Your note disturbed me at first, but then I thought…well, this is good for Daisy. You must remember you are also your father’s daughter, so Santos is risking quite a lot by taking you with him. Still, he’s already endured so much in his life, he can probably handle anything. Reckless girl. You may be envious of my art, but now I’m envious of your love affair. (Joking-joking lang.) I’ll miss you. Forgive the way this letter is written—I hope you can read my scrawl! And forgive my bad manners. My mother accuses me of being rude, and I am perfectly aware I haven’t been very nice to anyone lately…You must know how much Mama and I love you. We always think of you, Uncle Domingo, Tita Luisa, and Aurora. Don’t worry about them—they’ll eventually understand. And if they don’t…Here you go again, Daisy—disrupting our lives! Cora Camacho is going to enjoy every minute of this. You know that, don’t you? Be prepared for the worst. I really will miss you. Enough of my sentimental garbage, okay? You asked for my opinion—you got it. I must tell you, after that last fiasco of yours, your taste in men is improving. Of course! No doubt about it! Run away with him. Just don’t be shocked by how much you’re going to suffer. After all, you’re still a married woman in everyone’s eyes…
Jungle Chronicle
The most insignificant circumstances become omens which were almost always unfortunate. The song of the tic-tic, the appearance of a snake in the house, the shriek of a rat or a little lizard immediately caused a feeling of melancholy and gloom….
—Jean Mallat, The Philippines (1846)
Part Two:
The Song of Bullets
The sleep had lasted for centuries, but one day the thunderbolt struck, and in striking, infused life…
—Jose Rizal
The President’s Wife Has a Dream
IN THE MIDDLE OF the Pacific Ocean, a large white plantation house with imposing white pillars stands on a tiny island round as a pancake. The waves are still, the water glistens in the blazing sunlight. The island seems deserted, the house pristine and perfect in the silence. She thinks of starched white shirts, sharply pleated white sharkskin trousers, the gleaming blade of a knife.
She walks to the edge where beach meets water. She is dressed in her lavender terno, the one with stiff butterfly sleeves intricately embroidered with sequined flowers. She dives into the water in her beaded gown. Her thick black hair is swept up and rigid even in the water the lacquered helmet stays pinned and fixed on her head
It seems effortless at first. But as she swims the distance to her white island house keeps changing: first near then far the camera lens zooms in and out
The house becomes a speck on the horizon. She is panting, struggling to maintain her strength and energy. Her arms plow through the water water thick as syrup water resists her she aches with exhaustion she hears herself groan and gasp for air she momentarily panics someone waves to her from the balcony of the house.
Is it her daughter? A faceless woman in a wedding gown clutches a torn veil in one hand. She waves the veil like a banner above her head her movements become increasingly frantic are there sharks in the water? She swallows syrup her eyes sting with salt she heaves her body through syrup she doesn’t care she’s going to give up any second now and drown
There. She’s on the white verandah of the white house. Someone is playing a piano the music drifts from an open window the chords of a haunting mambo the opening chords played over and over again slow and deliberate it’s a funeral march where notes keep changing one mambo blends into another a mambo so familiar and elusive
She is in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City. She wears a scarlet beaded silk terno an opulent black tulle bustle accentuates her plump buttocks as she struts confidently toward the elevators
She is alarmed. She realizes she forgot to put on stockings and shoes no one else seems to notice
Her entourage of crones dressed in pastel blue walk behind her at a respectful distance. They drag her luggage hundreds of Vuitton suitcases in all shapes and sizes black steamer trunks pale pink hatboxes assorted plastic shopping bags one empty birdcage three pearl-handled English umbrellas and several sets of brand-new American golf clubs the women chatter among themselves their bursts of laughter annoy her she can’t understand a thing they’re saying suspects they’re talking about her
Which of course they are. She turns suddenly to reprimand them but they’ve vanished the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria is deserted except for chairs lawn chairs stools armchairs stacked on top of one another wrought-iron garden chairs wooden chairs chairs upholstered in medieval tapestry
Cristina Ford comes out of the first elevator. She wears a nun’s habit and veil. “Ciao, bella—” Cristina greets her warmly pulls a cigarette from the deep fold of her pocket and lights it she inhales greedily exhales the smoke with a sigh of contentment “look, darling—I managed to keep it,” she says, pulling off her veil shaking put her leonine mane of peroxided hair she takes another puff on her cigarette before disappearing into a second elevator
It’s a perfectly choreographed moment. The third elevator’s door slides open without hesitation she steps in she holds up her long terno skirt to keep her precious beads from dragging on the floor she looks down at her bare feet the red polish on her toenails is chipped the skin between her toes is cracked and blistered streaked with dirt she is horrified she drops the skirt quickly she can smell her own blood how could it be it’s been years is she menstruating?
The elevator operator turns to smile at her she jumps she hadn’t noticed he was there oh good it’s George Hamilton immaculate tuxedo starched shirt blue-black eyeliner a perpetual tan on his cartoon face it’s oh George his white teeth gleam like a knife like a knife she remembers oh he is lit from within when he smiles he’s an archangel “WANNA DANCE?” he yawns at her his voice a warped record the elevator comes to a sudden halt doors slide open to reveal a dark suite before she can answer with her usual
Before she can answer with her usual “I’m a woman always ready to dance” she finds herself alone in the hotel room there is a man asleep in a coffin his lips painted a vivid red no it’s a large bed she is alone and she is exhausted the bed is freshly made up she is surrounded by enormous bouquets and vases of flowers the bed is freshly made up the crisp white sheets look inviting she is obviously expected a box of chocolate seashells lies on her pillow the blankets are turned back in such a way a pile of chairs the temperature so cool the lilting strains of a melancholy mambo piped in through invisible speakers nothing too loud or obnoxious a mere suggestion of music for her sleeping pleasure a pile of garden chairs the temperature so cool all she wants to do is crawl
The curtains are drawn the bed is cool she is hot and terribly horny she removes her scarlet gown which falls in a red heap on the carpet she is pleasantly surprised the mirror reflects a taut adolescent body she munches her chocolates stark naked there is no one in her suite she makes sure of that first she knows now she can do anything she feels incredibly powerful exhausted by jet lag al
l she can do is fall luxuriating in the iciness of her sheets she’s so hot she’s burning up this must be purgatory
Pope John XXIII is in her room hiding behind the drawn drapes oh good John her favorite pope her favorite fantasy his plump face friendly and comforting she writhes slowly on her bed of ice she can’t believe her luck there is no one there to stop her she can do anything make the pope disappear she opens her legs Pope John puts a finger to his lips shhhhh shhhh his fleshy lips turn up in a guilty smile he’s a jolly fat man her Father Confessor her father the bureaucrat her father the old jolly Jesuit Father Manuel
It’s a jolly Italian no it’s her Ilocano husband leering at her with those painted lips she’s enraged by his intrusion “The lipstick doesn’t suit you” she snarls at him “Buwisit! Buwisit!” “WANNA DANCE?” he yawns at her a warped record left too long in the sun he’s a prune he’s a raisin he’s a pile of garden furniture in the middle of her bedroom something’s wrong
She sits up. A lizard emerges from the shadows sluggish clumsy movements a comic Godzilla she is relieved at first it’s only a cartoon the lizard’s scales are opalescent plastic sequined eyes the color of her scarlet terno it’s a halloween parade in excruciating slow motion
She sits up in terror. Where’s the salt? Pass the salt and pepper please pass the salt and do you by any chance have any Tabasco? the American consul once told her salt on slugs makes them fizz up and disappear a harmless cartoon
This is not a slug. This is a papier-mâché iguana. This is some sort of prank some sort of halloween coup d’état is she awake? do iguanas have teeth? Iguanas taste like chicken the American consul informs her the American consul is a diplomat who eats anything he’s been to Mexico stationed in Uruguay or was it Bolivia? “I am a girl who’s ready to dance” she informs him in that coquettish way of hers the American consul whispers in her ear Iguana stews are heavenly really sometimes peasant cooking is so inventive I’m a celestial traveler she whispers back
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