“Bullshit,” I said. “What is so mysterious about Lopito and his millions?”
The moment I said it, I was sorry, but Narita did not look away and her expression did not change.
“Eddie—you are so unfair. But I forgive you because you are in love with me. Look at it this way. We are in debt to them. Without Lopito, I would be stuck with this.” She cast a glance around her, at the bedraggled yard, the dilapidated house, the cadena de amor dying and brown on the brick wall.
Mother visited me at the dorm in Diliman a week after school opened. She brought the news that Narita’s father had died, that her mother was now alone in the house together with a niece and still minding the meat stall and that Narita was in Manila, staying at the Assumption Convent to finish college as arranged by Senator Reyes. She had asked where I was, Mother said, and was given my dorm address.
Sure enough, within the week, a note from her arrived. I knew her penmanship, the strong crosses of the t’s, the forceful upsweep of the last letter. I had developed early enough habits of the collector and the scholar and I kept that note as well as the other notes that she passed on to me.
Hello Eddie,
You were not with us when Papa died, but I forgive you because you did not know. You did not have to hurry to Manila so early, whatever your reason, but I also understand that. I promised myself I would not be jealous of your girlfriend. I will major in political science and economics, but I don’t know if this school has the right teachers for me. I would like to be in your campus, but I should be here for this is a wicked city and I need protection. Please come and see me. I want someone to talk with. The girls here know nothing and I am bored most of the time. Will you do this as a favor?
Affectionately,
N
She always signed her letters to close friends with her initial. I did visit her once at Assumption but that was to escort my sisters there when they finally came to Manila. She did come twice to my dorm and my roommate and acquaintances were agog over the prettiest girl they had ever seen coming to visit wretched me.
My parents came to see me every so often and when my two younger sisters started going to college, Father thought it best to build a house in Manila which, in the long run, would save us money and also be a good investment. He bought a lot in Quezon City and we moved to the house within six months, with Mother commuting to Manila to keep two households. She brought back stories of home, of Narita’s mother finally closing her stall and just staying home, of Narita going to the old hometown with Lopito.
Narita visited us and stayed in the house for a night but I was out doing a field survey in Bulacan. When I returned, my sisters told me that when she arrived she was in tears. She had gotten a full scholarship, was tops in her class and would probably graduate summa, was taking singing lessons besides, and acting in the musical which the school was presenting. But these were not enough. Her schoolmates from Negros ignored her and did not even ask her to participate in the annual Kahirup Ball—the sugar bloc’s most lavish social event of the year.
Senator Reyes did not have enough empathy to see to it that his prospective daughter-in-law should be in it and Narita was too proud to ask. She had, perhaps, thought that simply being pretty and talented would be enough to get her accepted into the snootiest Negros circle.
She did not want to stay in the college dorm that night. She had an “important social engagement,” too, even if it meant sulking in an anonymous middle-class home in Quezon City.
Narita must have gloated when, shortly after the Kahirup snub, she appeared on the cover of the Women’s Week and was described as “sugarland’s prettiest, with a skin as clear as sunlight and eyes that sparkled like jewels …” It was a comeuppance that should have made her forget the slight, but she would never forget. She came again in December in our last year in college, not to wish us Merry Christmas, but to hand carry an invitation to her wedding. I opened the door and outside was the black Mercedes 220 SE of Senator Reyes with its khaki-uniformed driver. It was such a long time—more than two years—since I had seen her and though I often ached to catch a glimpse of that face, I thought it best to dampen the desire, to let things be. She wore no makeup, her brownish hair shining in the morning sun, her skin glowing. She walked up to me, saying, “Eddie, Eddie—” then she embraced and kissed me—a wet, warm kiss of affection, the scent of her, her hair swirling around me. I was glad to see her and gladder that I was finally as tall as she.
I led her to the house saying inanities while she plied me with questions about school, my career as a sociologist. I asked about her politics, starring in the school musical that was plastered in the society pages, and her singing so well that a bright career was foreseen for her. She waved them all aside, saying she just wanted to be alive, to do nothing if that was possible, and raise a dozen children.
That really brought me back to earth for those children that she would raise would certainly not be mine. Her wedding would be in two weeks.
I had a very good excuse for not going: My major term paper was due and I had to go to my village again to observe the farmers there and see how they were responding to the innovations in rural credit. So I was away when she got married in the Forbes Park church but there were pictures all over, including one in which she was being carried by Lopito over the threshold of the new house that Senator Reyes had built for them.
My sisters where pleased to go; it was their first “society” wedding. Mother and Father were also there, perhaps Narita’s “closest relatives.” Their presence was imperative for it was Mother who was the madrina and I ascribed that to Narita’s innate good sense. She was now my “sister” and I often laughed at how ridiculous it seemed afterwards.
By the time I finished college, I met a junior in the Department of Anthropology, a charming Cebuana with a slim figure and a cheerful disposition and, with her, it was easy to forget Narita. After graduation, too, I had a graduate assistantship in the department and before the end of the year, a scholarship to Harvard. I grabbed it although it meant some financial difficulty for my father who still had three other children to send to college.
I did not see Narita again for about three years until I started working for my doctorate. For these lapses in the story, I relied on interviews, on remembered bits of conversation, on clippings of that period but mostly on her, for I never hesitated to ask her the frankest questions.
TAPE ONE
Mrs. Cornelia Cruz, cook:
(I have edited out the questions and repetitions so that this transcript is almost verbatim.)
My name is Cornelia Cruz, widow. I am fifty-eight years old and I was born in Bacolod. I have worked for Senator Reyes and his family for forty years, first as maid then as cook. I am a high school graduate and I learned to cook from Mrs. Reyes who also sent me to study at the Cordon Bleu school every afternoon for six months. I can prepare a European-style meal, Chinese, Indian, at least forty dishes—and even an Ilokano pinakbet (vegetable stew) if I were asked to. The Señorita’s favorite was pinakbet, with lots of prawns in it, instead of pork. She also liked half-ripe mangoes with the special sauce I prepare for it. And yes, salted eggs for breakfast, with tomatoes, and fried rice without lard—but with garlic and onions fried before mixing them with the rice. She always liked her meals hot and never cared much for cold cuts, sandwiches, except yogurt. When she went out, and it was possible, she always had a thermos bottle with her for soup, or tea and, of course, she always liked eating at home. She was a good cook herself and that was why I always tried my best. And yes, she knew meats. She could tell whether it was fresh, whether it was the best part of pork or beef. She even told me of the tricks that those women in the market play on their customers.
I was transferred to the new house of Señorito Lopito a week before they moved in. It was empty then—actually empty, and they lived in the Manila Hotel for two months while Señorita furnished it. She was very meticulous and her decorator was very exasperated, but the Señorita
knew what she wanted. It was such a beautiful house and the garden—it was much better than the senator’s. But then, from the very beginning, it was not a happy home. They were always quarreling, from the first day they moved into it. Señorita tried, I think, to be a good housewife, seeing to it that the Señorito’s meals were ready when he came home, and she never left home without asking his permission. She never went places—I know because I sometimes accompanied her to Christian’s—her dress shop in Malate, to the supermarket, or to parties with former college friends. And of course, the driver always took her there. Señorito always asked him to report where she went. Me, I had to tell him who called at the house, what she said. He was not the best husband, that I can say. But he never beat her although he could have done it for Señorito easily got violent. All his sports had something to do with violence and death—archery, shooting, fencing. Señorita Narita knew how to handle him, I suppose, for though she seldom raised her voice, from their silences, I knew that there was a lot of quarreling going on. Sometimes late in the night, I would hear them arguing. And, you know, our quarters are separate from the house but still I could hear. But then, when there was a party, it was as if she was the happiest girl in the world. And parties, we had them almost every day. I was never so tired and never before had I worked so hard as when I was in that house; but it was also good for I was able to apply what I learned. The Señorito was meticulous. He ordered the flowers, supervised the seating arrangements. I think he was showing off his wife all the time and he was really proud of her—brilliant, a good singer, a good actress—she was everything a man would be proud to marry or possess. Yes, I think it was that way—the Señorito wanted to possess her as if she were some property which, of course, the Señorita was not. She had a mind of her own and a very good mind, too. Sometimes, when I heard them talking, it was she who had a head on her shoulders. The Señorito would just sit quietly while his wife lectured to him. He really loved her. He bought her clothes and always tried to select materials for them. He bought her jewels, too, lots of them, and whenever they went to Hong Kong, you can be sure they always returned with something very expensive. And paintings, the Señorita introduced them to him, and santos and prints; they bought so many there is one room full of them for there is no place to hang them. And antiques, too—well, you see so many shops now selling them but when they started collecting, there was not a single shop where you could really get them. But Señorita Narita had a way and soon—other collectors were coming to the house, showing her things. She had taste, that is what Lopito always said and he felt very proud because he thought it was he who developed her taste. But that is not true; with her, taste was instinctive.
She was also clever. She convinced her father-in-law—that old, scheming man—to divide his property before he died so that there would be no squabbling among his children. And there were only three of them left, you know, so you can imagine how happy the Señorito was to have money of his own, lots of it. But wait, knowing how much of a spendthrift Lopito was, the Old Man saw to it that he could not spend the money without the approval of his wife or of the Old Man himself. And the Señorita—she was always visiting the senator, bringing him cakes which she baked, calling him up, inquiring about his health. And it was all very sincere so that even after they had separated, she continued seeing him and regarding him as a dutiful daughter should. It was a miracle, really, how the marriage could have lasted five years. Five years! It should not have lasted more than a year but that just shows you how patient she was, how she made herself the martyr which she was and this many people do not know. It was all his fault—that I can assure you. From the very beginning. I once heard Señorita telling him, and these were her exact words—“You are not only a liar, you are a coward. You should have told me, from the start …” To which Lopito screamed, for he was drunk that night, “So you would have gone out and gotten yourself a dozen men.” And the Señorita said, “Not while I am married to you, Lopito. Not while I am your wife. But I will do that the moment I leave this house.” I am not too sure about what he was lying about. Or being a coward for. But you must have noticed, there was something effeminate about him. It really started when the Señorito began bringing those boys to the house. Some of them riffraff, you know. The first time it happened, the Señorita transferred to the second floor guest room. They were sleeping separately in the second year of their marriage and in the third, they were hardly talking; the Señorito still held parties as if nothing had happened. He tried to win her back but it was impossible. Those boys, you know. Then they had this big quarrel, right after a party, for Lopito was flirting with one of the male guests and the Señorita was so embarrassed. That was when she left him—she went to live with her father-in-law. He followed her there and the senator did not know a thing about the boys, you know, and that was when he disowned his son. The Señorita refused to go back to Forbes Park and he really must have missed her, loved her in his own way. Well, you know, he collected guns. It was a shotgun which he used, stuck it into his mouth. It was no accident the way it was made to appear in the newspapers. When he died, the Señorita returned to Forbes Park and redecorated the house, changed everything, sold all the things that belonged to Lopito so that there would be no trace of him: There were less parties—maybe just once a month and I really looked forward to them for by then, I had become a very good cook. Why, I could apply anytime at any of the hotels or first-class restaurants. I have polished my French cooking so much, we had a guest once from Paris and he said he thought it was a French chef who prepared the meal.
END OF TAPE
I had been thorough in the interviews, of which I conducted literally more than a hundred, and I also visited and revisited the places where Narita had been and which were relevant to this story. I was always welcome in the Forbes Park residence and her two boys called me Tito. I knew their housekeeper, a distant aunt from back home in Santa Ana. It is a Spanish-type house, whitewashed, with a red-tile roof and ornately grilled windows. Tiles all over the place, in the balcony, the kitchen, and the trees planted there—the guava and the pomelo are now bearing fruit. Narita never seemed to have forgotten the old house in Santa Ana. And yes, the cadena de amor scrambles over the walls, not too profusely or wildly.
I had often mused about how it must feel to have someone commit suicide over you. I remember distinctly that afternoon we were having coffee in her library and she reminisced about her marriage to Lopito. I had just finished her major speech on the restructuring of Filipino cultural values and we were as a matter of fact, engaged in a discussion on the subject which had fascinated us in the think tank as well. She could have written it herself but, like me, she had taken up too many chores. By then, she had wanted me to leave the university so that I could be on her staff full-time, but I was never sold on politics as a career and, in hindsight, I was, of course, right.
She was in comfortable jeans, denim jacket, her hair in a ponytail. She was the mother of two but she could have easily been one of the juniors on the campus. She was holding a glass of Campari and soda which she herself had mixed and she had given me a glass of Southern Comfort, an affectation I had picked up in Cambridge. We had the house all to ourselves; the maids were asleep in their quarters, and the boys were vacationing with their grandfather in Baguio. She asked me why, at the very old age of thirty-four—which she also was—I had not yet gotten married.
“I suppose I have always been in love with you,” I said, at which she laughed aloud, that kind of joking, insinuating laughter which meant that while she appreciated the thought, she also automatically rejected it. She was already one of the most popular women in the country and vastly wealthy, the extent of which I had only started to realize.
“Well, at least you are not a homo,” she said, merriment in her eyes. Then it came—sudden, precise, and without any warning. “That was what Lopito was—oh, everyone knew it. Didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“He was what you call AC/DC,” she
said, her face all seriousness now. “We had such fun in the beginning when he was going to Santa Ana—remember? And here in Manila, too, when he was parading me around. I was good camouflage for him. But I think that in his own way, he sincerely loved me.” She paused. Her eyes had misted. “He was so kind, so good to me. He did all that I wanted and I promised myself that I would really be true to him, be an old-fashioned Filipino wife. Do you still see the likes of her?”
“Are you asking me as a sociologist?”
“Yes,” she said.
“The society is changing, Narita. Look at you and you understand how times have changed.”
She nodded. “It was not the boys that Lopito brought home,” she said, “although that aggravated it. It was not his putting me on a pedestal to show off to his friends, to his society crowd. I liked that. I had more beauty, more brains than any of them.” Then it all came through again how the girls at Assumption had snubbed her because she had such lowly origins.
“Lopito, we could have been just friends, you know. As two people can be very good friends, the way we are …” She leaned over and pinched me on the thigh. It was more of a caress and it sent delightful shivers through me. “But after we had gotten married, that was when we really had body contact, you know, the kissing and the petting. Man-wife relations. But that was all there was to it. I would be all heated up and anxious and ready—and he could not do it. He could not do it!” She was pounding the throw pillow viciously, her face wrought up in anger, her eyes blazing. I had never seen Narita in such a mood before and I was shocked and frightened.
After Lopito’s death, Narita went into mourning, wore the black dress of widows and—as an informant told me of this period—she was if anything more chic in her black dresses. But her grief was real. You cannot live with a person for five years and not have the slightest attachment to him. She retained her married name and preferred to be addressed as Mrs. Reyes even when she went into politics. And her children, too, though they were not Lopito’s—she gave them her husband’s name. Senator Reyes knew this and it is perhaps for this reason why the Old Man is happy with her children, too.
Three Filipino Women Page 2
