by Janet Dawson
Many of the older people — and some of the younger ones, too — wore the Filipino dress I remembered seeing in newspaper photographs of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. For the men the attire was lightweight short-sleeve shirts, many with embroidery down the front, worn outside the trousers. Alex told me the shirts were called barongs, and there was a more formal long-sleeve version. “That’s a barong tagalog,” he said, pointing toward one man whose white shirt was open at the neck. “Sometimes they’re made of banana or pineapple leaves, even coconut or hemp.”
The women swirled around in ankle-length butterfly-sleeve dresses in pastel colors that trumpeted spring. Time-hardened old men stood along the walls, pinching cigarettes between their fingers. Carrying rosaries and flowers for the Virgin in their gnarled fingers, the old women looked frail, but they weren’t. What faces they had, a collision of Asian and Latin gene pools simmered together in the thousands of islands, large and small, that made up the Philippines.
“I see my aunts,” Alex said over the din. He took my elbow and steered me toward the front of the hall. I spotted Josefa Luna and Medy Pangalinan standing at the end of one row of chairs to the left of the altar, both in butterfly-sleeve dresses. Again, they looked like twins, Josefa in yellow and Medy in pink. Alex barely had time to greet them, when the priest entered. He was a short man with a broad, dark face, resplendent in his vestments. There was one seat left at the end of the row. Josefa and Medy urged me to sit down. Alex remained standing, leaning against the wall.
The priest’s eyes fell on me briefly, then he began the Mass, saying that he would conduct it in English since there were people in the crowd who did not speak Tagalog. I felt more conspicuous than ever. I listened and watched the people around me as the priest told the story of the Tower of Babel. Even in the Philippines, he said, people from Cavite have trouble understanding people from Ilocos Norte or the Visayans because of the many dialects. He praised traditional Filipino values as being one with Catholic values. I caught Medy’s sidelong glance at Alex, whose face was still and unreadable, and recalled her disapproving comment about his divorce. The hymns were in Tagalog. The celebrants, young and old and mostly women, lined up for Communion. Alex remained standing at the wall. I watched the others in my row, including Josefa and Medy, pass single file to the center aisle. After taking the wafer and wine, they circled to the outer aisles and I stepped aside to let them return to their seats.
When the celebrants were seated again, the priest raised his hands and began a long prayer for “our country, the Philippines, and our country, the United States.” As I looked around the room, I recalled Pete Pascal’s comment about Filipino-Americans having feet in both worlds, struggling to maintain their own culture while assimilating into the stew that is America.
Suddenly the Mass was over. All around me, people folded metal chairs and stacked them against the wall, clearing the hardwood floor of the hall. Alex and I hauled chairs to the sidelines, and I lost sight of his aunts. Near the front door of the hall a group of men took out instruments and became a brass band. Their first notes cacophonous, they soon broke into a bouncy three-quarter time. Men slid poles through holders on either side of the palanquins holding statues of the Virgin and the saint, then hoisted the poles to their shoulders. As the band oompahed an exuberant rhythm, the people in the hall began to dance. Some held hands as they shuffled in time to the music. Others took partners and waltzed.
“The karakol,” Alex said, shouting over the music. He seized my hand and led me into the mass of people snaking around the hall. The men carrying the palanquins moved slowly in a counterclockwise direction, preceded by others waving red and white flags, all of them dancing past the brass band. I saw the little boy, still perched on his father’s shoulders, arms waving in time to the music. Another father held his small daughter in his arms as he whirled around the room. Mothers danced with their arms around their older children. The old women who looked so solemn during the Mass threw off the slow dignity of age and waltzed with their grandsons.
A leathery old man wearing a cream-colored barong tagalog stopped in front of me, bowed, and took my hand. We joined a circle of dancers that included the priest, still in his vestments. One, two, three — one, two, three — the music echoed off the walls, and suddenly I wanted to take that trip I’d discussed with Dolores Cruz the previous day at Mabuhay Travel. I wanted to ride through Manila in a colorful jeepney, climb to the terraced rice fields at Banaue, and walk along a sandy beach on the Philippine Sea.
I smiled at my elderly partner and he smiled back, head inclined in a courtly bow. I saw Alex waltzing with his aunts, first Josefa, then Medy, his dark face animated by laughter. Then he claimed me as his partner, twirling me away from the circle and into his arms.
“Having fun?” he asked, his mouth close to my ear and his arm wound tightly around me. His other hand covered mine as it rested on his shoulder. I enjoyed the pressure of his body against mine.
“Yes,” I said with a grin.
As we waltzed around the room in the throng of dancers, I saw the flash of a camera strobe several times in rapid succession. Behind the camera was Felice Navarro in a purple jump suit with a lemon yellow belt and matching espadrilles on her feet, the red camera bag riding her shoulder as it had been the day I’d met her and her brother. She spotted me and waved, a friendly smile on her face. Then she saw who I was dancing with and looked startled, startled enough to make me wonder how she knew Alex Tongco.
The karakol ended, the brass band replaced by sixties rock from someone’s CD player. People began queuing up on the opposite side of the hall, where a wide doorway led to a corridor and the dining hall beyond. Alex kept his arms around my waist for a moment, taking the opportunity to nuzzle my neck. Then his aunts appeared with an older couple in tow. “Well, butete,” the old man said, greeting Alex with a slap on the back. “When you gonna make admiral?”
Alex laughed, and the conversation continued in a mixture of English, Spanish, and Tagalog. I walked slowly around the room, watching faces, searching for Felice Navarro with her camera, but I didn’t see her. Instead, I saw her brother Rick a few paces in front of me, looking dapper in dark slacks and a crisp white barong that bared his muscular forearms. He stood with his hand resting lightly on the waist of a strikingly beautiful woman. She wore a clinging mauve silk dress with a neckline that set off her creamy complexion and the strand of pearls around her neck. Matching pearls were displayed in her ears. Her long dark hair was swept up into a knot at the nape of her neck. She pushed an escaping strand away from her face, and I saw a huge diamond on her left hand, several carats of glitter surrounded by pearls and smaller diamonds. It looked as though she needed another ring on her right hand just for balance, but it was bare.
“Miss Howard,” Rick Navarro said when I appeared in front of him. “Delighted to see you again. Let me introduce my fiancée, Nina Agoncillo.”
“Jeri Howard,” I said, offering my hand. The beautiful Miss Agoncillo had smooth, cool skin and an enigmatic smile. “I’m looking for Felice. I saw her a moment ago, but now I’ve lost her.”
Rick Navarro laughed. “She’ll turn up. Just look for the flash. Miss Howard’s a private investigator, Nina.” Nina smiled and nodded, murmuring something polite and disinterested. “What are you doing at the fiesta of San Isidro Labrador? Investigating our Filipino culture?”
“Purely a social occasion. I’m here with a friend.” I scanned the room, and my eyes located Alex, still talking with his aunts and the elderly couple. When our eyes met, he smiled and excused himself, heading quickly in my direction. Then he saw whom I was with, and his face closed up abruptly. The air around me became charged with electricity. Of course, I thought, recalling the second name on the Tongcos’ real estate transaction as well as Aunt Medy’s earlier comment about Alex’s divorce. It appeared the former Nina Tongco didn’t intend to wait long before marrying again.
Alex greeted Rick and Nina with chill courtesy. Then the fou
r of us jumped as a flash went off in our faces, a strobe propelled by Felice, armed with her camera and a determined smile. “I see your aunts,” Felice said cheerfully, looking at Alex. “Is your mother here?”
Alex shook his head. “She’s in Manila, visiting Aunt Concepcion.”
“And your uncle Javier?” Rick posed the question with a smile, but I sensed that it was a barb aimed at Alex, as was the way he took possession of Nina Agoncillo’s hand.
Alex responded with a question of his own. “Your father?” He directed his clipped words to Felice, but it was Rick who answered.
“He flew in from Manila this week. He’s doing very well.”
“I’m not surprised,” Alex said, an undercurrent in his voice. “Max always lands on his feet.”
Josefa and Medy joined us, their butterfly dresses and chatter quickly altering the mood as they greeted Nina with affection, reflecting the younger woman’s status as a former family member. As they admired her engagement ring, I heard Nina tell the two aunts that she was living with her brother Sal in San Francisco until her wedding to Rick in August.
We had been drifting toward the corridor that led to the dining hall and the feast. “Line up, line up, plenty of food,” Medy urged, sounding like my Italian grandmother down in Monterey. Felice swirled off in another direction, camera at the ready, while Rick and Nina, hand in hand, joined the queue. Alex looked as though he wanted to escape. He headed for the front door, out onto the steps, and I followed him.
“You don’t like Rick Navarro.” I leaned against the railing and studied Alex’s face. “And it’s got nothing to do with your ex-wife.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I make my living observing people and drawing conclusions. You’ve known him a while, and you don’t like him. Any particular reason?”
“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” Alex challenged me.
I shook my head. “No. I don’t know who you are at all. You give me only bits and pieces of information, whenever you choose. I know you have a mother, a brother, and an Aunt Concepcion in Manila. You never mentioned Uncle Javier. I had to find out about him from Pete Pascal. Why should Rick Navarro make a point of inquiring about him?” He didn’t answer. “If you won’t talk about the Manibusans, tell me about Rick Navarro. Is he a citizen?”
“No. He came over about about three years ago, on a trader visa. He lives in his father’s big house in Pacific Heights and runs his father’s big import business.”
“That would be Max. Max Navarro. I’ve heard that name before.” I tried to recall where I’d heard or read it. Alex wasn’t helping. Instead, he favored me with a sideways glance. Then I remembered. “Something to do with Marcos.”
“Everything to do with Marcos.” Alex’s voice was quiet, and he looked out at the street.
“Maximiliano Navarro,” I said. “He switched sides, like Enrile and Ramos.”
I pulled a face from my memory bank, the same square, pugnacious face as that of Rick Navarro, only older, moving across my television screen several years before, when Ferdinand Marcos’s corrupt martial law regime tottered and finally disintegrated in the face of Corazon Aquino and “people power.” Cory had help, though. Defense Minister Juan Ponce Enrile, one of the architects of martial law, and Fidel Ramos, head of the Philippine Constabulary, saw fed-up Filipinos in the streets of Manila and shifted their allegiance from the dictator to the housewife. Others followed their lead, including a wealthy businessman named Maximiliano Navarro.
“So Rick and Felice have a famous father,” I said.
Alex nodded. “And an older brother back in the Philippines. Max Junior. Everyone calls him Jun. Jun runs the big sugar plantation. That’s where the family money comes from, but Max diversified. He’s involved in all sorts of things — banking, electronics, imports. Rick runs the import business here in the Bay Area.”
“Why did you say Max always lands on his feet?”
“They call him Pusa, the cat. He was a big Marcos supporter all through the martial law years. Then in 1985, when he saw which way the wind was blowing, he suddenly discovered a lot of affection for Corazon Aquino. He sailed through the revolution, all right. Now that everyone’s blaming Cory for not solving a century’s worth of problems in a few years, Max is about to jump into politics. He’s got a lot of money and so do his friends, like Hector Guzman over in Daly City. Max just acquired a second wife with all the right connections. My guess is he’s going to run for president, along with Enrile, Cojuanco, and Laurel. The same old faces, the same old fights.”
“So the turmoil continues?”
“It’ll never be over,” Alex said, shaking his head. “Not till the old men die. Maybe not even then.”
“Such cynicism,” I commented.
“When it comes to Filipino politics, cynicism is the only logical response.” He favored me with a sardonic smile and took my hand. “I can think of better things to do than talk politics. Let’s get in line or we won’t get any food.”
Alex’s willingness to talk about the Navarros seemed limited to the male members of the family. He hadn’t mentioned Felice, and it was no oversight. He didn’t want to talk about her. Had there been something between them?
The queue leading to the kitchen was shorter now, and the hall was full of people eating from paper plates. When we finally reached the kitchen, the line split, leading to a bank of tables. I saw two roast pigs, apples in their mouths, maraschino cherries and circles of pineapple where their eyes had been. The table was laden with platters of boiled shrimp and barbecued chicken as well.
“What is all this stuff? All I know from Filipino food is pancit and lumpia.”
He laughed, handing me a plate as he swept one hand toward the roast pigs. “Lechon, otherwise known as pork, in many different varieties. Tocino is spiced pork and that’s lechon kawali, which is deep fried. This is pancit palabok, noodles with garlic sauce, and pancit sotanghon, noodles with vegetables. That’s ensaymada, a sweet bread with a filling. And here’s all the lumpia you can eat.”
We piled our plates high with everything, including lumpia, the Filipino egg rolls I love. Alex led the way out the side door, plate in one hand and two bottles of dark San Miguel beer dangling from the other. We found a spot on the grass and sat cross-legged, eating as we talked.
“What did that old man call you? Butete?”
“It’s a nickname,” he said. “That’s what people called me when I was a kid.”
“What does it mean?”
He looked pained. “Tadpole.”
I choked down a laugh with my beer. “Have you turned into a frog?”
“Palaka? No, a frog prince.” His brown eyes smoldered, and I felt my skin tingle. “Kiss me and find out what happens.”
“Tell me about your mother and your brother,” I said, spearing a piece of the savory roast pork. “And Aunt Concepcion in Manila.”
He took a mouthful of pancit, chewed, and washed it down with beer. “My mother is a widow. My father died of a heart attack five years ago. Mama lives here in Fremont, not far from my brother Carlos. He works for one of those computer outfits over in the Silicon Valley. He’s the good Filipino son.” He said this last with a wry smile. “Married to a good Catholic wife, with three beautiful children, a house in the suburbs, a great job. All the things I’m not.”
“You’re the navy officer. Don’t the gold stripes on your sleeve count for anything?”
“Ah, yes, but I haven’t provided Mama with any grandchildren she can brag about when she goes to see Aunt Connie in Manila.”
I pulled the last shreds of barbecued chicken from a drumstick and reached for a napkin to wipe the sauce from my hands. “My mother frequently tosses me barbs on that very subject. My brother is the one with the wife and two kids. He teaches up in Sonoma.”
“Teaching runs in the family, then.” Alex twirled pancit onto his fork. “Mine, too, with Lito and my grandfather Carlos.”
“And my grand
father on the Howard side. Grandma Jerusha was an actress for a while. In Hollywood in the Thirties. She died a few years ago. My other grandmother is still alive, down in Monterey with my mother.”
“Your parents are divorced?”
“Yes. Mom owns a restaurant in Monterey called Café Marie.” I leaned back, feeling stuffed and drowsy.
He dipped his last lumpia into a puddle of sauce and took a bite. “Any luck finding the missing envelope?”
“Not so far. I just started looking through the boxes yesterday.”
“What about that guy Villegas, the one who wants Lito’s files?”
I told Alex what I’d learned about Eddie the Knife. “We know your uncle was working on an article about Asian immigrants and crime. So did Eddie. The professor must have encountered Eddie when he was researching the article.”
“He was interviewing a lot of people last summer and fall for his book,” Alex pointed out. “The one about manongs. “
“Manongs?”
He gestured with his chin, and I turned to look at a trio of elderly men sitting in the sun, talking among themselves. “The first generation of immigrants, like those old men, They came over before World War Two and worked in the cities as busboys and janitors, or as cheap farm labor all over California. Worked hard all their lives and had to deal with a lot of racism and restrictive immigration laws. There weren’t that many Filipino women here. Some of them married outside the culture, but most of them are old single men living in hotels. Places like the International Hotel in San Francisco. You remember that?”
I nodded. The ugly incident had been a media circus. The International Hotel once stood near San Francisco’s Chinatown, full of elderly Asian men like those Alex described, alone, with no families, spending the sum of their remaining days in its inexpensive rooms. In the late seventies some corporation wanted to tear down the International and build something else, so the old men had been messily and painfully evicted, dispersed to other cheap hotels in other marginal neighborhoods. The International Hotel was bulldozed into oblivion. The irony was that nothing had been built in its place. Instead of homes, however meager, there was now a large gravel-filled hole.
