Dogeaters

by Jessica Hagedorn

  When she is high on her drugs, what she calls her “vitamins,” Lolita Luna entertains her delusions more openly. She is convinced the General will help her fix her papers and pay for her passage out of Manila to a foreign country, some place where she can start all over again. Lolita Luna is paid well for her movies, but she’s always broke. She dreams of Los Angeles and New York, somewhere she can study acting and stop playing so much, somewhere she can indulge her passion for shopping. Clothes, shoes, lingerie, cosmetics, chocolates, household appliances: it doesn’t matter, Lolita always buys at least two of each.

  “We can’t go. The President needs me,” General Ledesma tells her gruffly.

  “We haven’t gone anywhere in almost a year!”

  “There are more important things in life than your vacations—”

  “This is not a vacation, this is a new life. You’re always telling me to change, so now I want to change. I can’t do it by staying in Manila—why don’t you arrange it so I can leave?” She stares at him, trying to shame him into submission. He gazes back at her coolly.

  “You’re in the middle of making a movie, remember? Don’t invite trouble by leaving town. Gossip about you and your crazy antics bothers me. It bothers me deeply,” the General repeats for emphasis. “What about that shopping trip to Hong Kong a few months ago? Wasn’t that enough? Don’t you consider that a vacation? You left town without telling me. I had to hear about it from Nestor—”

  “I’m not discussing vacations. I’m talking about leaving Manila, permanently—”

  The General’s laugh is soft and derisive. He sits erect in an oversize wicker lounge chair, quietly picking at the food set in front of him. The servant Mila has left a tray with sandwiches, cold bottles of TruCola and beer, and assorted Chinese pastries. While he eats, he observes that Lolita never does, notes how black and luminous her eyes are, how restlessly she moves around the room. He thinks: It’s that shit she’s on again—she can’t fool me. If I ever catch that dealer of hers, by the time I’m through, he’s going to beg me to kill him.

  “You have everything you want, right here in Manila,” the General says. “Why don’t you straighten out and behave? You’re a lucky girl—do you know how many others dream of being in your position? Just remember—I don’t want to hear anymore tsismis about you from Nestor—”

  “Nestor is an ass and a liar! He’s jealous, and wishes he was me. Of course, you’d rather listen to his vicious gossip than believe me—all I did was go shopping with Girlie for the weekend! I just had to get out of here for a few days—but I’m sure Nestor made it sound like a juicy scandal!” Lolita pouts. He loves it when she gets angry and sticks out her lower lip. He finds it amusing when she sulks.

  Lolita saunters over to the tape deck and presses the rewind button. The same song blares out of the speakers a third time. The General calmly finishes his chicken sandwich, then reaches for a black bean cake. “You shouldn’t be seen too often with Girlie Alacran.”

  Lolita stops fiddling with her hair and looks at him, annoyed. “Why?”

  “She’s nothing but a whore, that’s why. It’s common knowledge in Manila,” the General replies, almost prim. The sudden prudishness in his manner makes Lolita smile.

  “Girlie Alacran doesn’t need money,” Lolita argues, “she’s an Alacran! She’s Junior Miss Philippines! Why should she—”

  “Because she likes it,” the General snaps, “just like you like your drugs. It’s a thrill for her—making men pay. Especially when she doesn’t need the money. You understand that, don’t you?”

  The General bites into the sweet, round bean cake, which crumbles in his hand. Lolita watches him chew and is reminded of a plodding carabao with dusty eyes, submerged in muddy water, chewing grass. “Did you kill the Senator?” she suddenly asks, taking him by surprise.

  The General takes his time, pouring TruCola into a tall glass filled with ice. “Haven’t you read the newspapers? We caught the assassin.”

  “You’re really disgusting,” Lolita says quietly. She gets up from her seat and paces around the room.

  The General takes a long drink from his glass. “You must thank Mila for me, darling. She really knows how to take care of me—”

  “Why don’t you have another sandwich, then? It’s such a shame to waste food,” Lolita sneers. She needs a smoke so badly, she wants to scream. Her eyes frantically scan the room for a pack of cigarettes, finally resting on a butt left in one of the ashtrays. Whose? Maybe her dealer’s—he was over last night, demanding more money. She picks up the butt and lights it, inhaling gratefully.

  The General wipes his mouth carefully with a paper napkin. “I thought you quit smoking.”

  “I did.” Lolita shrugs, stubbing out the last of her cigarette in the ashtray. He had asked her not to smoke. It was bad for her health, the General said, and it stank…She smiles at the old man. The air conditioner emits a low, steady hum in the white room. The tape comes to a stop. Lolita walks over to the sound system given her by Severo Alacran. She presses the eject button.

  “It’s about time,” General Ledesma murmurs. He is not prepared for the next tape she inserts, “Pull Up to the Bumper” by Grace Jones. Lolita turns up the volume another decibel. The General groans. “Turn it down NOW,” he orders her. When she ignores him, he gets up and kicks the machine with his foot. The machine is destroyed with two swift hard kicks. The silence that follows is deafening.

  The General sits down again to eat, saying nothing. He is extremely angry, yet outwardly calm and impassive; he puts away enormous amounts of food. He considers his next move. If he were a wiser man, he would leave her. The affair with Lolita Luna is a messy one, and he cannot afford to waste time and emotion on messy situations.

  She does something contrary to her nature. She gets down on her knees before him. She begs him to arrange her visa and lend her the money to leave. She promises to pay him back as soon as she is able, as soon as she is settled. She tells him how important it is to her, how she will lose her mind if she continues living like this, how she is tired of being a movie star, but can’t explain why. She does not tell him how trapped she feels, alone with her watchdog servant in her white apartment. When she is finished, he tells her he doesn’t believe her. He accuses her of being stoned and of toying with him.

  She is stunned by his chilly response. She has planned this moment, aware it excites him to see her kneeling like this, dressed only in her underwear. He has never seen her beg; he’s been waiting a long time. A giddiness comes over her. “I swear I’m not high,” she whispers to him. “I don’t want you to go anywhere,” the General finally says, tenderly. “I don’t want you out of my sight. I want you here in Manila, where you belong.” The General is almost moved to tears when Lolita starts crying. Then he wonders if this is another of her cheap movie tricks, this ability to cry at will.

  “If you’re so determined to leave,” he says, “why don’t you ask your patron saint Alacran to give you the money? Or one of those foreigners you like so much? Maybe Alacran will even go with you—I hear New York’s his favorite city. A man like him can take off whenever he wants.” It pains the General to admit his awareness of her treachery, but he can’t help himself.

  “Fuck Alacran! Fuck the men you’ve removed from my life!” Lolita yells. Herself again, she stomps angrily around the room. “Look what you’ve done to my stereo! You son of a bitch, you better buy me another one—” She whirls to confront him where he sits unmoving, a toad buddha on his wicker throne. “I want to get out of here, Nicky! I want to get out of here before I get killed!”

  He looks disgusted. “Why would anyone want to kill you?” “Because I’m your mistress. Because they all know—” The General is curious and alert now. “What do they know?” “Oh, nothing. You never know,” she adds quickly, “I might get killed by accident, in one of those demonstrations—” “I didn’t know you were such an activist.”

  “I’m not!” Lolita pauses. “Max has been g
etting threatening phone calls.”

  “Max Rodriguez is an avowed leftist troublemaker. He deserves what he gets—”

  “What do you mean? Max is a movie director.”

  “Max deserves what he gets,” the General repeats, with the same bland look on his face.

  “Nestor told me Max has been blacklisted. He can’t even get a job directing plays, or teaching at the university—”

  The General shrugs. “Max should be pleased. He’s so busy organizing protests and defending human rights, he doesn’t have time to direct anything.”

  “I like Max.”

  “I don’t like baklas.”

  “You like Nestor.”

  “Nestor’s useful.”

  Lolita longs for another cigarette. She considers asking Mila to run the errand for her, then remembers Mila is gone for the afternoon. She is always gone while he visits. It’s never bothered Lolita in the past, but today she wishes she wasn’t alone with the old man in her white apartment. The polished chrome and glass, the white abstract paintings, and the regulated temperature strike her as ominous and all wrong.

  “Is it true Daisy Avila’s been captured?” She asks him. “They say she came back to town when her father died to try and see her family, and they found her in some hideout.” She knows better than to pry, but questions keep pouring out of her.

  “Who told you that—Nestor?” The General casually picks up a bottle of beer. He sips from the bottle, which surprises her. He is normally a fastidious man.

  “No one told me. You know how it is on the set. There’s a lot of waiting around—people make tsismis. I hear all sorts of things—”

  “Ahhh,” the General sighs, “tsismis. I forget—this country thrives on misinformation.” He pauses for an instant. “And what exactly do you say, when you hear this kind of tsismis? How do you react? Do you add fuel to the fire?”

  “I don’t say anything, Nicky. I just listen.”

  He watches her face closely, sees exhaustion crease her brightly made up features. He knows she is lying. “I’ve always known I could trust you,” he says.

  She forces herself to smile at him, an effort that doesn’t go unnoticed. Once again, the General’s pride is wounded.

  He wants to make love to her. He dreams she will come to him out of desire not for drug money, rent money, or access to his power. Not because of her son, who is indirectly supported by the General. The General knows he is a fool, but he holds out his arms in spite of himself, gesturing impatiently for her to come to him.

  Lolita Luna realizes that the conversation is over and she is not going to get what she wants. She will rot in Manila for the rest of her life, or else he will have her killed; it is that simple. It is a revelation for the movie star, and almost invigorating. Pulling off her lavender panties, she bursts out laughing. She flings them at the bewildered General; they land on his left shoulder, hook onto one of his epaulets and hang there, a forlorn and frilly flag. “If you’re not going to help me, then leave my house,” she says with contempt.

  “Once again, I must remind you, darling—the lease is in my name.”

  She storms out of the living room and locks herself in the bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom is white, the walls and ceiling mirrored. The white tub is sunken, the floor around it carpeted with a plush white rug. The effect is both antiseptic and sexual. The bathroom is her favorite room, her hideaway. The sight of her naked body in the mirrors excites her. Transfixed by her own image, she caresses herself, then remembers the old man waiting in the other room.

  Disgusting old shit. She can imagine only too well what he’s up to—stuffing her panties in his pocket, one more souvenir of one more disgusting situation. They were all the same, these old men. Even Severo Alacran, with all his high-class manners and expensive cologne. Carrying around her used panties as if they were a fetish, like a piece of her they had carved off, like her skin. She offered them some glimpse of immortality—she knew this in her own stoned, fuzzy, instinctual way.

  Lolita Luna has one more option. One of Severo Alacran’s partners has approached her about an unusual movie deal, what he refers to as “experimental art films.” These art films would involve lengthy close-ups of Lolita Luna’s vagina, shot by professional cameramen in living color and in a variety of simulated violent settings. “We will only allude to violence,” the man reassures her. Her vagina teased by the gleaming blade of a knife, for example, or perhaps a stubby black pistol. Or by the edge of a samurai sword, in a script featuring grinning Japanese villains. When the movie star looks offended, the producer hastens to calm her. “Simulated and suggestive—fear as an erotic stimulant—that’s all we’re after. You’ll be surprised how much people will pay to see you, La Dolce Luna! It’s not a movie for the average taxi driver, of course. He could never afford the price of admission. This is art! Think of your European counterpart! If you wish, there will be no actual penetration,” he adds blithely.

  She is asked to name her price, a request which intrigues her. “You’re our biggest star after all,” the producer says. She wonders if Severo Alacran is involved, and decides not to ask. She is told the movies are privately screened for select audiences. “We only use top directors and performers,” the producer continues. “Max Rodriguez and Nestor Noralez have already agreed to direct our projects.” Lolita is stunned by the information. The producer tells her to take her time making a decision, and leaves her an engraved business card with his name and phone number.

  More shoes, more drugs, her own ticket out of the country. Her debts paid off, once and for all. Her four-year-old son’s future finally insured. Her child lives with her parents in Zambales. Strict Catholics, Lolita’s mother and father have not spoken to her in years. They are ashamed of their daughter and refuse to see her popular movies. Her mother claims the child as her own. Lolita sends home generous monthly stipends for her son, who is clearly mestizo. She cannot decide who the father is—maybe the Englishman who married Daisy Avila, maybe some American. It’s not important. She loves her son and is convinced he is better off with her parents. Lolita has not seen him since his second birthday, as her mother’s grim countenance makes all visits unbearable.

  She is fascinated by her dark and brazen image in the mirror, by the way her flesh glows in the midst of such impersonal splendor. The General bangs his fist against the locked door, twisting the brass knob and calling her name. He apologizes and pleads with her, promising her a plane ticket one moment, then threatening to kick in the door when she doesn’t respond.

  The old man’s voice is hoarse with shouting. Lolita Luna tears herself away from her mirrors. “All right, all right, calm down, Nicky!” she shouts back. She hesitates, her hand on the doorknob, then she dismisses her fears. The General is just another old man. She opens the door.

  Golf

  IN GIRLIE ALACRAN’S DREAM, the caddies are dark, barefoot boys with reddish-gold streaks in their long, uncombed hair. They live in caves beneath the palatial country club, which is perched on a cliff overlooking a jungle of banana, narra, tamarind, coconut, and indigo trees. Wild orchids, red and pink gumamela flowers sprout miraculously from the clusters of serpentine vines that cover the jungle floor.

  It is dusk when the boys creep out stealthily from their subterranean shelter. The unsuspecting guests sip rum cocktails on the open-air verandah; they wear bathing suits with fluffy towels draped around their necks. Languid in their rattan lounge chairs, they gaze blankly at the spectacular jungle view, not talking to each other.

  Everyone is present who matters: Uncle Severo and Auntie Isabel, cousin Baby, Girlie’s dead mother Blanca, her blind father Pacifico and fat brother Boomboom, her past lover Malcolm Webb, even the President and the First Lady. They are all sitting in separate areas, unaware of one another, when the front flap of cousin Baby’s maternity bathing suit is blown up by a sudden gust of wind, revealing the bright yellow beach ball concealed underneath. “That’s all there is,” cousin Bab
y starts singing. “Sprinkled with stars / that’s all there is / sprinkled with shining stars!” She closes her eyes, repeating the inane lyrics with rapt concentration, her face glowing and ecstatic. “Santa Rosario, Santa Rosario, where is your husband?” Malcolm Webb asks, running up to her. He is wearing a waiter’s jacket and bow tie over his swimming trunks, and carries a tray of assorted drinks. When there is no response from cousin Baby, he climbs up on the railing and dives off into the jungle, the tray of drinks still balanced on one hand.

  Girlie’s blind father taps a rhythm with his cane. “Sprinkled with little / tiny stars,” he joins in the singing, his voice feeble and strained. He is almost drowned out by cousin Baby’s unwavering soprano.

  “Tiny / tiny stars / sparkling stars!” sings an enthusiastic chorus led by the President and First Lady. They love to sing, and the First Lady is radiant with happiness. The song ends abruptly; they force Girlie to kneel on the edge of the verandah. She is blindfolded, her hands tied behind her back. “You frauds! You chickens!” Girlie screeches. Cousin Baby starts to sing again. “Fried little stars / fried little chickens,” Baby warbles, and her sweet, lilting refrain soars above the vast green abyss of the jungle below.

  When they attack, the caddies are armed with golf clubs. They swing their deadly weapons, striking anyone in their path with sleek and shiny putters, number-two irons and number threes, clubs with massive, wedge-shaped, wooden heads. “I GONNA KILL YOU WID YOUR OWN SHIT! ARNOLD PALMERS! JACK NICKLAUS!” the dark boys roar in unison. The leader grabs Girlie by the hair. He rips off her blindfold so she can see what is happening to her. “You must be mistaken,” she says, meekly. She says this several times, until she realizes it is a waste of time, no one is listening. She begs and pleads for her life while the growling boy drags her around the verandah by her hair. She is a carcass, a prize trophy, but he is unsure about killing her and Girlie senses it. “I don’t even like golf!” she yells, in desperation.