by Nicki Chen
“I’ve already decided,” Diana announced without opening the menu. “I’m going to have tempura.”
Jay laughed. “You’re so American.”
“I love tempura. Nobody does deep frying like the Japanese.”
“You do know they learned the technique from Portuguese missionaries in Nagasaki, don’t you?”
She shook her finger at him. “Don’t be so pedantic, Professor. I don’t care where they learned it. The Japanese perfected the art of deep frying.”
The restaurant was filling up fast. If the tourists living in the hotel didn’t hurry, they’d have to try another restaurant or order room service. Jay turned and raised his chin at a couple with two children being seated not far from them. “It looks like we’re not the only expats escaping hot, stuffy houses and apartments.”
He was right. The family had “expats” written all over them, from the well-worn stuffed bunny their toddler was dragging to the particular kind of casual clothing they wore. Even though tourists wore shorts and sandals in the afternoon, they usually dressed up for dinner. Mainly, though, it was something elusive. The family had a we-belong-here way of interacting with the waiter and settling themselves in their chairs.
“Here’s to my lovely wife,” Jay said, raising his glass.
“To us.”
“So,” Diana said after they’d clinked glasses, “how much longer will Marshall Charbonneau be here before he heads back to Vanuatu?”
“A couple more days.”
“Hm.” She watched a waiter glide across the floor, a large tray balanced on the flat of his hand. “We should invite him for dinner.”
Jay looked puzzled. “I thought you didn’t like him.”
“Oh . . .” This was no time to remind Jay that Charbonneau was a fat, narcissistic New Yorker who got where he was through scheming and bullying. “It’s just that . . .” She cleared her throat. “You know, he’s been here for a while. He must be tired of hotel food and eating alone.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about Marshall Charbonneau being lonely.” His eye roll said it all. Everyone knew about Marshall’s reputation for hiring hookers when he traveled. “I’ll ask him, though, if that’s what you want.”
Diana took another gulp of wine and looked away. She was already feeling a little woozy. The wine wasn’t clouding her thinking, though. Instead it seemed to have cleared her mind, slowed it down enough that all the clatter and clutter and extravagant desires of her heart got swept away, leaving behind some inconvenient facts. The projects handled by the South Pacific office were small and inconsequential. Would Jay want to move to a regional office when he could stay at the headquarters and continue working on all those big important projects he cared so much about? She put her glass down and swallowed a sigh.
“We can take him to that Spanish restaurant in Malate,” Jay said. “With the power so uncertain, we can’t invite him to the apartment.”
Diana nodded and looked away. For a moment, her crazy idea hung on refusing to die. Then the waiter arrived with their entrées. Jay’s steak teppanyaki and her tempura.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Diana said.
“I’m always hungry for a good steak.”
His enthusiasm for such large quantities of meat always puzzled Diana. You’d think he was a teenager, not a thirty-six-year-old man who’d reached his full height of six foot one almost two decades earlier.
While Diana was touching the tips of her chopsticks together, preparing to clasp a prawn between them, Jay, in the efficient manner of a man who loves steak, cut off a slice, cut again, and, without missing a beat, forked the meat into his mouth.
“Mmm. Perfect,” he said. How he managed to utter the words without looking like a man talking with his mouth full, Diana couldn’t say. “Does the tempura meet your expectations?” he asked.
“It’s excellent.”
“You know,” he said, cocking his head and smiling, his knife paused in mid-cut, “I think you’d like eel. It’s nothing like tempura, but I think you’d like its sweet, rich taste. They grill it, so it’s crispy on the outside. I’ll have to take you to Seoul sometime. They have great eel.”
She placed one prawn’s pretty pink tail on the edge of her plate and picked up another. During her last appointment, Dr. Feliciano had suggested that she go with Jay on his business trips so they wouldn’t miss being together during her fertile periods. Maybe she was right. There was no reason Diana couldn’t go along with him. She held her prawn in the air and caught his eye. “I’d like to go with you on your next mission.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not the next one, honey. You’d have nothing to do. Besides, my next mission is to Pakistan. It isn’t safe there, especially where I’ll be going.”
“Where are you going?” Diana knew quite a few Pakistani ladies, fellow members of the D-TAP Women’s Club. It couldn’t be that dangerous. Most of them went back to Pakistan for home leave every couple of years.
“We’ll be going into the tribal areas up near the Afghanistan border. Looking at a possible route for a proposed pipeline.” His eyes lit up.
This was why he liked his job—the exotic locations, the whiff of danger, the projects that offered progress to developing countries. And this was why she hated to ask the man she loved to give it all up for her.
19
“When’s it going to stop?” It wasn’t the wetness that bothered her. It was the sense that they were locked in a garish watery cell, one that traveled with them wherever they went, blocking out the rest of the world. That and the sense that this was a waste of time since she’d dropped the idea of talking to Jay about Johnny Gamboa’s looming medical retirement.
“Remember last year at this time,” Jay said. “It rained for the biblical forty days and forty nights.” He was driving, as he always did when they were together, even though she knew her way around Manila better than he did.
She winced at the whine of the windshield wipers as the car slowed to turn into the hotel. “I wish I hadn’t suggested taking Marshall out for dinner. He’s not my favorite person.”
“He’s not so bad.” Jay pulled up under the hotel’s canopy and stopped. “Besides, he’s all alone in the hotel. He’ll appreciate the company.”
“He might appreciate our company, but I’m not sure I’m in the mood for his.”
Jay patted her knee. “Smile. There he is.” He raised his eyebrows. “Whoops! It appears he didn’t need our company after all.”
Diana affected a smile and waved. Next to Marshall’s flabby bulk, the petite Filipina at his side looked like a Barbie, four-inch heels and all. She glanced back at Jay. His shrug seemed to indicate that they were supposed to pretend there was nothing strange about Marshall, who’d left his wife at home in Vanuatu, taking a pretty young Filipina out to dinner. Or rather, that she and Jay were taking them both out. Oh, well, she thought as she opened her door and stepped out to greet them. Maybe they were just friends.
“This is Liza.” Marshall looked down at the girl and grinned. “Liza with a ‘z.’”
“Not Lisa with an ‘s,’” the girl sang back up at him. Her smoky contralto wasn’t a perfect imitation of Liza Minnelli, but it was close.
“You don’t mind if she comes along, do you?”
“That’s fine.” Jay opened the back door, and Liza climbed in giggling at the assist Marshall gave to her small, tight butt.
“Jay and I were thinking of Casa Armas in Malate,” Diana said over her shoulder once they were underway. The slick boulevard reflected back smudges of red from a double line of taillights that reached only to the edge of the curtain of rain.
“Yeah. Spanish food,” Marshall said. “Liza and I can share a paella.”
“And flan de caramelo for dessert,” she purred.
“Sure thing, baby. Liza and I are old friends, you know.”
“Really.” This twenty-something girl wasn’t exactly Diana’s idea of an old friend.
“Yeah. Liza wa
s the main attraction at my favorite nightclub in Hong Kong. Weren’t you, babe? She sings like a bird . . . a bird who took singing lessons from Ella Fitzgerald and Barbra Streisand.” He chuckled and did something that made her squeal. “It doesn’t hurt that she has all the right curves.”
Diana looked straight ahead and rolled her eyes.
“You’re back in Manila now?” Jay asked Liza.
“Yes, sir. For now.”
“Imagine my surprise,” Marshall said, “when I found Liza sitting on the piano in the hotel lounge and singing my favorite song.”
“Which song?”
“You know, babe, that one where you sing way low down and sexy.”
It was going to be a long night. One consolation: The food at Casa Armas was top notch.
The place they’d chosen was an old-style Spanish restaurant. Diana didn’t know whether to be surprised that, nine decades after the end of Spanish rule in the Philippines, their influence still remained, or whether to be surprised that there wasn’t more of it. After all, the Philippines had been a Spanish colony for more than three hundred years.
Across from the receptionist, the would-be knight of La Mancha held his wooden lance at the ready.
“Oh! Don Quixote!” Liza exclaimed.
Marshall put an arm around her and patted the carving’s shoulder. “Where, pray tell, is your squire, sir?” he asked.
Ignoring Marshall’s little joke, the receptionist scooped up four menus and showed them to their table. No sooner had they pulled their heavy chairs out and sat down than Marshall swept his arm across the table and announced. “Paella for all.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jay said.
“We’ll see.” Diana opened her menu and glanced at the list of aperitivos. She had been thinking of paella, but . . . damn it! She could decide for herself. On the other hand, when Jay ordered a pitcher of sangria for the table without asking anyone, she gave him a big thumbs-up with only a momentary recognition of her hypocrisy. Everyone liked sangria, didn’t they?
“So . . .” Liza licked her lips and leaned across the table. “Marshall, baby, have you ever tasted black paella?” The tabletop pushed her breasts up and pointed them straight at him.
“Sounds intriguing,” he said as though he were simply flirting, not choosing what to eat.
“It’s my favorite,” she said in a little girl voice. “They make it with squid in its own ink. Let’s share a dish for two. Okay?” How could he refuse?
Diana looked at Jay. “Paella Valenciana?”
“Sure thing.”
When the flirting had run its course and the sangria had been poured, Jay and Marshall turned to their favorite topic, D-TAP. The thought of asking Marshall about Vanuatu crossed Diana’s mind, but she bit down and dismissed it. No sense torturing herself. It wasn’t going to happen. Instead she turned to Liza. “Good sangria.”
“Yes.”
And since sangria doesn’t lend itself to small sips, they both raised their glasses high and let the fruity goodness flow over their tongues and down their throats.
Liza put her glass down and ran a finger around the rim.
“That’s a lovely ring,” Diana said, noting the sparkle on Liza’s finger.
“Thank you.”
They looked at each other and smiled, each waiting for the other one to think of something to say.
Breaking the silence, Liza raised her pretty eyebrows and asked: “Do you have children?”
Whoa! From the smallest of small talk to piercing Diana’s heart and soul in a single step. “No,” she said as evenly as she could manage. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
Diana took a breath and pressed her lips together, her mind racing to find an artful dodge. Why was this young woman, this stranger, this girl Marshall picked up in the bar, asking her such a personal question? It’s none of your business, she wanted to say. Instead she answered truthfully: “I haven’t been able to get pregnant yet.”
Liza nodded and left it at that.
Diana took a breath and exhaled out the tension that had built up with Liza’s questions. She’d said it plainly, her sadness, her failure. And now Liza understood. They sat for a long moment, gazing across the table at the men. Then they glanced at each other and smiled. “Did you like living in Hong Kong?” Diana asked.
“Are you kidding? I bloody loved it. It’s the best place in the world for a singer. People in Hong Kong love Filipino musicians. My brother and his band are a big success there.” It turned out that on the twin topics of Hong Kong and musicians, Liza had a lot to say. Her older brother was the one who’d brought her to Hong Kong. Seven years ago, he’d sent enough money for a one-way ticket. His reason: He and the guys in his band needed someone to cook for them. “He thought I was just his baby sister. Then one day he let me sing at one of his gigs, and . . .” She threw her arms out in a ta-da pose. “The people loved me. That’s how I got my start.”
Diana smiled and nodded. She was beginning to like Liza. “Will you go back to Hong Kong?”
“Yes, ma’am, when I save enough money.”
Seeing how Liza slumped in her chair and stared at the table, Diana hesitated to ask the next obvious question. If Liza wanted to talk about her reason for leaving Hong Kong, she would.
“We sent money at first,” Liza said softly. “For Mami’s doctor.” She picked at her nail polish and rocked like a child trying to sooth herself to sleep. “Our other brother in Saudi, he sent money, too. Auntie Paz was there to help out. Also the cousins. We thought she was gonna get well, so I stayed in Hong Kong. But she only got worse. Then I had to come back to the Philippines, to our town.” Liza crossed herself. “God rest her soul.”
“I’m so sorry,” Diana said.
Liza cleared her throat and looked away.
Diana wanted to hug her, to say something comforting. But what? What can you say about death? She patted Liza’s hand, and while she was still wondering what to say, the waiter arrived.
She had to suppress a gasp when she saw the black paella that Marshall and Liza ordered. Their platter was piled high with rice, squid, and some unrecognizable vegetables, all of it stained blueish black by the squids’ ink. The dish was saved from total gloom by the prawns scattered on top. In contrast, Jay and Diana’s Paella Valenciana was a fiesta of colors and shapes—creamy white rice, green peas, pink-veined prawns, chorizo medallions, chicken legs, and mussels with their shells open like hungry mouths.
Marshall frowned at his paella. “This better be good,” he said, wagging a finger at Liza.
She shot him a kissy-lips response, and placed two big scoops of paella on his plate. Then she delicately plucked two prawns up by their tails and artfully arranged them, tails up, on top of his paella.
“Okay, here goes.” Marshall scooped up a forkful of paella and held it in the air a moment. The wrinkles between his eyebrows deepened as he opened his mouth and took a bite. “Hey!” he said, nodding and smiling as he chewed. “Not bad. I’ve gotta give it to this little girl here. She has a way of pushing me in new directions. Don’t want to get stuck in a rut. Right, babe?”
“No way.”
Diana couldn’t help but smile. This was a new Marshall, all congenial and easygoing. It was too bad he had to be cheating on his wife before his fun side came out. She shared a glance with Jay as he dropped a mussel shell on their shared shell plate.
“So, when did you start singing?” Jay asked, his face all serious and bland as though she were a business associate and not a girl Marshall picked up in the hotel bar.
Liza sat up straight and raised her chin. “The day I was born.”
“I told you,” Marshall said. “She’s a little nightingale. A real natural.”
Jay nodded. “What kind of songs do you sing?”
“Every kind. Anything you like. I look at the people—their faces, clothes they wear, their talk. Then I choose a song for them. I know thousands of songs. Every kind.”
“What s
ong did you choose for Marshall?” Diana asked.
Liza chuckled. “First time I see him, I see his haircut, very short, and his tie, too skinny. And I see his baby blue eyes, so happy. So I think this man, he like old song, not too sad.”
“What did you sing?”
“‘Sweet Caroline.’ You know, Neil Diamond.”
Marshall put his fork down. “‘Sweet Caroline,’” he sang, attracting head-turns at four or five tables. “‘Da da da.’”
Diana clapped her hands. “Perfect. And what song would you sing for Jay?”
Liza leaned across the table and studied him. She took a long swallow of sangria and narrowed her eyes. “Song of Don Quixote,” she said finally with a big satisfied grin. “‘Impossible Dream.’ If I sing it to him, he gonna cry.”
“Me?” Jay asked with an embarrassed little laugh.
“Yes,” Diana said. “Absolutely.” She wondered if he remembered how years ago, when they were still dating, that very song had brought tears to his eyes during a performance of Man of La Mancha. She thought it was sweet then. She still did.
“Okay.” Jay scooped up a bite of chorizo and rice. “What about Diana?”
A butterfly fluttered up from Diana’s stomach to her throat. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this. Opening herself up to Liza was too much like sitting down at a fortune teller’s table and offering her palm. She pulled her hands back and clasped them together.
Liza squinted and pursed her lips. “Hm.” She leaned closer to Diana. Then she looked up at the ceiling. “‘Memory,’” she said, pouncing on the word like a cat on a mouse.
“What? You mean the song from Cats?” Diana was appalled.
“‘Memory,’” Liza sang softly, “‘all alone in the moonlight . . .’”
“But, Liza,” Diana objected, “that’s the song the elderly cat sings.”
“Young, old. Doesn’t matter. Feeling matters. You have big feelings in here.” She tapped her chest. “But deep, very deep down. This song is right for you. I tell you, if I sing it to you, you gonna cry.”
