The Music

by James Hamilton-Paterson

  ‘Down under?’

  ‘Sydney,’ Carl explained. ‘My home town. Okay – don’t answer now. Just are you interested, in principle?’ She nodded. ‘In that case I’ll give you my card. When’s your day off? When are you free?’

  ‘Wednesday afternoon,’ she said, thinking of her only day for catching up on the sleep she seemed to need more and more. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be in the Midtown Ramada, Room 207, this Wednesday afternoon. Come if you can. Come if you want. But I’m flying out again Friday. It’s up to you … I didn’t get your name? Dulce? Pretty. Stage or real? Not that it matters. Okay, then.’

  He lumbered away, heaping a jowl on to one shoulder as he looked back for a passing cab and leaving her holding a card whose embossed lettering (she ran an impressed finger over it) announced him as Carl Spanier of Spanier Entertainments (Pty), Sydney.

  All this was so evidently a dream her impulse was to keep it to herself. Otherwise she would feel such a fool when it didn’t come true. But at last she did tell Danny, pointing out a little defiantly that this was the sort of businessman who had embossed cards and stayed at the best hotels, not some fast-talking scumbag living in one of those pension houses or motels which charged two-hourly rates. But all Danny would do was jerk his head in acquiescence and echo Rey’s ‘Ingat’. ‘Take care, that’s all.’

  When she awoke on Wednesday midday in her plywood cubicle she washed and dressed attentively, even pilfering a squirt or two of young Lerma’s ‘Frenzy’ before eating a nervous lunch of rice and broth and catching a jeepney to the Midtown Ramada. This, she thought as she crossed a gleaming marble floor dotted with shrubs, liveried bell-boys and knots of foreigners gathered around heaps of expensive luggage, was the first step in what would surely become her natural habitat as an international singer. She wondered if she could pinch some of the hotel’s headed stationery on which to write home. Dulce didn’t know whether to feel disappointment or relief when, having announced her on the house phone, the receptionist said that Mr Spanier would come down to meet her in the Coffee Shop in five minutes.

  She went through, was shown a table and glanced through the menu, hoping her amazement at the prices wouldn’t be noticed by her neighbours and betray her as a girl fresh from the provinces. But really – a pot of chocolate would set you back nearly half what she earned for a hard night’s singing. At that moment Carl came up with a Filipino in his twenties who had the sort of matinée idol hairstyle that ex-President Marcos had affected, a gleaming, Presleyesque sweep. Evidently Carl dressed conservatively during daylight hours; he was wearing dark slacks and a plain white shirt whose hem still overhung his belt like the valance of a curtain. He introduced his companion as Boy Torres, who took her hand with a knowing wink. Carl, by contrast, was polite and slightly formal as if he repented his night-time persona.

  ‘Glad you could make it,’ he said. ‘Now, have you ordered? No? Should have. What’ll you have?’

  ‘I’d like a pot of chocolate,’ Dulce said, with what she hoped was the right amount of casualness.

  While they were waiting she caught Boy’s complicitous glances which seemed to say ‘I know you, babe. I know your miserable village and I know your schoolgirl dreams. I know where you’re at. You and me, we understand each other. Tagalog? Ilokano? Cebuano? I don’t care what your language is, I speak it too. The only foreigner here’s old Fatso. I’m on your side. We’ll work something out.’ And again the wink.

  Three pots of chocolate arrived and were served into white cups like dollops of fragrant mud.

  ‘I was telling Boy here about your lovely voice,’ Carl said, ‘and he can’t wait to hear you. Boy’s my agent here in Manila, my business associate, I guess you’d say. He scouts the talent for me when I’m not around. What I do, I run an entertainments agency. Solo singers, dancers, pop groups, live acts, circus acts, magic shows, you name it. But only the best. You’re in the right place, you know. Forget the Old World. South-east Asia, the Pacific Rim, Australasia: this is where the action is now. The real money, the real economic future’s right here. People all over from Korea to Tasmania want the best and by God they can pay for it. I only deal in the best, right, Boy? He’ll tell you. I don’t care about the rest. They can go off and play hick towns in the States or do yawny-porny cabarets in Manchester and Hamburg. Let ’em go. Only the best for Spanier Entertainments and from what I’ve listened to these last few nights you’re the best. Or you easily could be, with a bit of proper training. How old are you, Dulce?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Boy asked her in Tagalog. ‘No point in lying. You’ll need a birth certificate for your passport application.’

  ‘It’s true,’ she said in English.

  ‘You look younger,’ Carl said appreciatively, ‘but that’s advantageous. Ever had any voice training?’

  Dulce thought she couldn’t recall a time when she hadn’t been singing. The school concerts, the choirs, the Flores de Mayo … ‘Well,’ she said, ‘not really. Lack of funds.’

  ‘I thought so, but we can arrange that easily enough. Read music?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, thinking of the tonic sol-fa hymn sheets with the numbered guitar chords.

  ‘That’s great. Pretty rare, too. You’re one in a thousand, believe me. Education?’

  ‘High school graduate,’ she said proudly.

  ‘Wow. I’m beginning to think you’re overqualified,’ he said and then, catching sight of her look of dismay, added ‘Only kidding. You need brains to get ahead, sing well, pick up a new act. We’ve enough Kleenex-brains in the industry as it is. You married, Dulce?’

  ‘No,’ she said, knowing she was blushing.

  ‘Not even nearly?’

  ‘No.’ How did one answer a question like that, especially when asked by a complete stranger? What was nearly? And if one said no, how was it possible to counter a faint suggestion that one was slow in love, nearly out of one’s teens with chances slipping by? Or else a bit fast, not to say downright loose?

  ‘What I mean,’ explained Carl, ‘is you’d be completely free to take up a job abroad if one came up? No family encumbrances, clinging boyfriends, emotional complications, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’ From the corner of her eye she could glimpse Boy staring at her.

  ‘Fine. Tell me, Dulce, what do you want? I mean, in the best of all worlds what would you like to be?’

  How different he was from Perfecto, she thought; how strange that an earnest young boy and this pink middle-aged Australian should ask her the same question. Where did their interests coincide? She was amazed to hear herself giving Pecto’s own answer.

  ‘Truthfulness.’

  ‘How’s that again?’

  ‘I mean,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I want to be myself. All I am is a singer. I want to be a singer. I really love music, you see.’ And in case this sounded too feebly self-indulgent she added ‘To earn a living, I mean. I guess I’m ambitious.’ She took a decisive swig of the chocolate which even felt like sweet mud in her mouth it was so thick and rich, falling down her gullet like silt.

  ‘I reckon that’s pretty much what I wanted to hear.’ Carl sat back with an encouraging smile. ‘You’ve no idea the number of kids I talk to, young wannabes of every kind. Singers, keyboard players, guitar-bashers, percussion nerds. The one thing most of them never say – never even hint at – is that they love what they do. That’s why the majority of them will never make it. Not in a million years. You can’t hope to make a profession out of music without, first and foremost, a love of music. It comes even before talent and a long, long way before skill. Skills can be taught, love can’t. Am I right?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ she cried, at last warming to this odd blowsy businessman with the voluminous shirts and the Dunhill watch whose crocodile strap was sunk deep in fat and hair. Wasn’t this what she’d always said to Lisel and Marivic and all those other know-all schoolfriends of hers who yearned only to ge
t up on a stage, never mind what they’d do once they’d got there? ‘I know that’s right!’

  It felt like a real intimacy between them, which made it all the more disconcerting when Carl looked at his watch and said ‘Hey, Dulcie, I’ve got to dash. As I said, I’m flying out to Oz day after tomorrow, got a million things to do before then. Do you mind if I leave you and Boy to complete the formalities? I assume you haven’t got a passport so we’ll have to start the ball rolling. Don’t worry about it – Boy’s got fixers all lined up who’ll take care of the whole thing.’ He pushed back his chair.

  ‘But,’ said Dulce, ‘I mean, thanks for the chocolate, Mr Spanier.’

  ‘Carl, for Pete’s sake. Where d’you get this Mr Spanier stuff? If you’re coming to Oz you’ll have to loosen up and get pally, Dulcie.’

  ‘What I mean is, Carl, have I got a job? Am I really going to Australia?’

  But Carl would only say ‘Speak to the man. Bye, Dulcie’, and waddled off through the Coffee Shop calling ‘Spanier, two-o-seven, right?’ to their waitress.

  ‘Tará,’ said Boy.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The office.’

  They took a taxi to a block of apartments two streets over from Roxas Boulevard, not far from Malate Church. The lift wasn’t working. Apprehensively Dulce followed the heels of Boy’s white sneakers as they climbed two flights to an unmarked door.

  – You’ve got to be kidding – her Guardian Angel said faintly, but all she could hear was the sound of her own best shoes on the gritty cement. She was only partially relieved to see that the main room was indeed set up as an office although there wasn’t a secretary in sight.

  ‘Relax. Sit down.’ He pushed a button on a cassette deck and the room filled with the sound of Charlene singing ‘I’ve never been to me’. It was one of Dulce’s favourite songs and she couldn’t help humming along with it. ‘How about a drink?’

  ‘I don’t drink, thanks.’

  ‘Kalamansi juice? Coke?’

  ‘A cold kalamansi would be nice,’ she admitted. Its acid, citrus bite would hopefully cut through the last of the chocolate which still seemed to be coating her teeth and tongue. Boy Torres disappeared. There came the distant sound of a refrigerator door, clinking glasses, stirring.

  ‘I’ve no doubt

  you dream about

  the things you never do;

  but I wish someone

  had talked to me

  like I wanna talk to you,’

  sang Charlene warningly, winding up to her world-weary discovery that paradise was a lie. Then Boy came back with two glasses.

  – Basically – her Guardian Angel announced inaudibly – you’re on your own. –

  ‘See, I’m having one too,’ said Boy. ‘I left the spoon in yours in case you wanted more sugar. Okay, now.’ He sat behind the large desk and messed about with sheets of paper, finally straightening some up in front of him and picking up a pen. ‘Names? Date of birth?’

  She gave the answers obediently in between sips of the juice which was delightfully cold in her mouth.

  ‘Place of occupation – yuh, Bambi Bar, 2361 Santiago, Pasay.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ she asked in surprise.

  He gave her an impatient glance. ‘How do you think? Carl went there three nights running, didn’t he?’

  Of course. Yes, how stupid of her. She was finding it hard to concentrate because of the music. It was always the same with her: if people talked against music it was the music which took her attention, no matter how important the conversation. She had the urge to kick off her shoes and sing, really let herself go. But the chair was comfortable and she was content to sit there for as long as he liked, answering silly questions about herself, her home address, her next of kin. Why couldn’t these documents say ‘family’? ‘Next of kin’ sounded so ominous, more like drawing up a will than applying for a fabulous future.

  Boy Torres was looking at her. He patted his quiff. ‘Give us a song, then, Dulce. Go on, sing along. I’ve never heard you.’ He crossed to the cassette deck and rewound the tape. ‘I’ve never been to me’ started again.

  Dulce put down her empty glass and heard the music pounding within her as if it were welling up from an internal source, so fresh and urgent it sounded. With sudden abandon she lay back in her chair and began belting it out fit to fill an auditorium:

  ‘I’ve been

  undressed by kings

  and I’ve seen some things

  that a woman ain’t s’posed to see;

  I’ve been to paradise

  but I’ve never been to me’

  only it didn’t come belting out but emerged as a faint, little girl’s wailing which surprised her very much. Boy Torres merely smiled a bit more.

  ‘Are you a virgin, Dulce?’

  ‘I don’t believe that’s in the questionnaire,’ she squeaked severely.

  ‘We have a need to know,’ he said, putting down his ballpen and coming around the desk.

  – I really will be off now, – her Guardian Angel told her faintly. – I clean forgot about drugs. Look, I’m really sorry. I goofed. What can I say? –

  This time she was hearing her Angel’s words but they were so slow she began to lose their meaning. She did notice they fitted exactly to the music, that in fact Charlene was singing the words as he spoke them. She was lying on a bed, it seemed, and a small, slippery sensation which had been going on for some time now began spreading an urgent warmth through her. She thought of Perfecto but perversely it was Carl Spanier’s huge face swimming in front of her accompanied by a crushing sensation which was not at all disagreeable. Carl promptly melted into Boy Torres. Handsome brute, she thought, and Pecto’s earnest entreaties drifted away. The desire which replaced them was probably unassuageable.

  When Dulce awoke the room was dark. There was a man lying beside her. She was ragingly thirsty. She stumbled about the apartment, turning on lights until she found the kitchen and drank four glasses of water straight off. Her legs were weak and felt cold. Looking down, she discovered she was naked below the waist. She pulled her blouse together at her throat and the gesture made her aware of her desolation.

  ‘You bastard,’ she said as Boy came in, fully clothed.

  ‘Huh? Is that a nice way to greet your lover, Dulce?’

  ‘Lover? Rapist, more like.’

  ‘Oh sure, some rapist. You were fabulous, kid. I’ve never known anyone put out like that. Talk about hot to trot. I’m exhausted.’

  Disgusted and humiliated she leaned against the sink and wept quietly.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ he asked her. ‘Look at your legs. Go look at the bed. See any blood? Torn clothes? Do I look as if I had to fight my way in?’

  ‘Drugs,’ she said bitterly. ‘You drugged me.’ But there was no proof, no-one she could turn to who mightn’t have tangled her in still worse trouble. Boy Torres, like Lettie Tan, undoubtedly had good connections; you needed them in the recruitment business. Go to the police with a hoary old story like hers and she’d be asking to get squashed, maybe even terminally. With reckless extravagance she took a cab back to her lodgings, head pounding and heart sick. It was eleven-thirty at night. Even before washing she phoned the Ramada to be told that Mr Spanier was not in his room. The next morning when she woke at ten it appeared Mr Spanier had already checked out.

  ‘Checked out? But it’s only Thursday.’ She thought for a long moment in which the busy receptionist, evidently thinking there was no more to be said, broke the connection.

  *

  The scattered wisps of her recollection acquired the weightlessness of a dream, too insubstantial to be allowed to interfere with her professional future. After all, she might well have imagined the fat man’s presence in the office; the sole reality was having woken in a bed beside Boy. She therefore wrote Carl a dignified, guarded letter asking him whether she might apply to him direct since his Manila agent, Mr Torres, had revealed himself to be a person with whom no sin
gle girl would wish to do business. The weeks of waiting for his reply stretched themselves out. In this time Dulce rehearsed every kind of hopelessness and remorse. She simply had to go abroad now. She didn’t want to stay a day longer than necessary in this city and there was no way she could go home. That was what she longed for, of course: to return to her family but not as a failure and a disgrace. No money, no career, no father for the baby which even now might be taking shape inside her, a contaminating mannikin with a miniature quiff of hair … For the same reason she couldn’t even run back to Cousin Lita in Parañaque. Her fellow-boarders became alarmed by her sudden tearfulness. One day on the radio she heard somebody singing ‘Amazing Grace’, which had been one of her own best-loved and most often requested numbers in the choir back home. It broke her up completely. They carried her to her cubicle and drew the curtain and two of the girls sat with her and did each other’s nails as Dulce cried herself to sleep. Privy to her secret, they were horrified and phlegmatic. That was the way things were.

  But they weren’t privy to her most terrible secret of all, the one which truly left her life in ruins. For Dulce had lost her voice. Oh, she could still sing, but it wasn’t the same. She found she could no longer throw back her head and let the soul flood out of her mouth as before. She still had the notes, the words, the skill; but something had died, maybe even music itself. Her firm belief became that she would only ever regain her true voice by going abroad. Surely in Sydney or Hong Kong or Tokyo it would at once return in its former glory. As long as she stayed here, though, she would be a mere performer instead of a real musician. This defection, this desertion by her most intimate faculty caused her the greatest anguish of all.