On the train back to Tokyo, we talked with an openness that was refreshing, for now she unveiled her innermost feelings, her fear that she might get pregnant. Abortion was legal, though, and that was one recourse she could take if …
“Don’t, Yoshiko,” I said, although I was sure that I could no longer get any woman pregnant. “If you should ever be, I will marry you. Raise the child—after all, it is ours …”
She held my hand and pressed it. “I will think about it,” she said. She then went on to tell me that there was a time, her father had told her, when baby girls in Japan were killed by the parents if they were poor. Thinning out, they called it.
Was she bothered by the fact that she was no longer a virgin?
Again, a blush bloomed on her face. Then she said quickly, “No, it does not matter so much. But if it did, the Japanese surgeons are so good, they can restore the broken hymen.” Then she said she had had to quit her job—her extended absence necessitated it. But, with the money I gave her, there was enough for her and her mother to live on until she found another job. She assured me it was not difficult to find one in Tokyo.
I was now sorry and felt responsible for her plight. I told her I would try to get her into Marubishi—I knew some of their top people. Otherwise, she could always come to Manila where she could work in one of my companies.
It turned out that her father had worked for Marubishi, in their heavy industries division. Why, then, did she not seek employment in the company? “Simple,” she said, “I did not know anyone.”
It was not difficult to get her a position in Marubishi; some of the biggies there remembered her father. I left Tokyo very much elated. Not only had Yoshiko gotten a good job but most of all I had weaned her away from a deviation that would have psychologically maimed her later. Although she never admitted this, I could sense her gratefulness. She came to Manila with her ailing mother the following year, and they stayed in Sta. Mesa for a couple of weeks. The day before they arrived, I sent Corito and Angela on a trip to Europe. Yoshiko shared several days with me in Baguio, in Hong Kong, then back to Tokyo.
When she got married, however, she cut off further relations with me. For her wedding, I gave her an emerald set—ear-rings, necklace, ring, all from Wako, and a superb poulownia cabinet for her bedroom. On occasion, she would send a card, or if I was in Tokyo, she would call and ask how I was. That was how it should end. I had no regrets.
But to return to that early evening the previous year when Yoshiko dumped me in Asakusa after our excursion to Nikko. I was in no hurry to return to the Imperial, lonely and frustrated as I was. I walked to nearby Yoshiwara—the Japanese closed it soon after. I wandered, dispirited, around the old rickety prostitution quarter, the teahouses glowing with their paper lanterns, the girls seated out front in the autumn cold, dressed in their woolens, some of them in winter kimonos. I entered several teahouses but did not linger long.
I finally saw her—demure, dainty, my quintessential image of a Japanese beauty and, having made arrangements with the madam, she soon changed into ordinary Western dress, over it an olive green U.S. Army winter jacket. We took a taxi to the Imperial, which was quite a distance away, and held hands. Reiko—how can I forget her name? She spoke a little English, probably learned from her GI customers. She carried a small Japanese-English dictionary to which she often referred.
It was as I expected her to be: expertly passionate, solicitous, ever ready to respond to my every wish, even perhaps to per-versions which, fortunately, I did not have. She waited for me to wake up in the morning and when I asked her to have breakfast with me, she said that she had to go, that is, if I did not want to do it anymore. And, of course, I did it again.
I left for Manila that noon. At the time, there were so few passengers flying, it was not necessary to make reservations. In Manila, in the late evening, the first symptom struck—an itchiness in the groin that worsened into a dull ache. I slept fitfully that night and in the morning I had difficulty urinating. When I finally did, to my surprise, pus was in my urine. I knew at once I had caught my first case of gonorrhea. Qué barbaridad!
I went immediately to our family doctor. Dr. Avecilla told me not to worry. Penicillin, he said, would kill it in a couple of days. He was right, but I wanted to be sure there were no bugs left in my system, so I told him to give me a blood test as well. He called me frantically the following day to see him immediately.
Dr. Avecilla was part Chinese, with chubby features and eyes that disappeared into mere slits when he laughed. His demeanor was humorless. “You have syphilis,” he said without hesitation.
I was stunned. Wasn’t the pencillin working?
“It would take more than a two-day treatment,” he said. He went on to say that I must have had it for years and it was now in an advanced stage, which meant it would be more difficult to eradicate. He asked if I had noticed anything wrong with my body functions, any recurring ailment bothering me, but I was as healthy as a water buffalo. He said syphilis was a great imitator: it took on the symptoms of other diseases and it may have already damaged my body without my being aware of it.
He asked if in the past I had ever had a sore that did not heal quickly. And that was when I remembered: during the early days of Liberation, I did develop a sore on the lower lip that took a long time to heal. And I remember with some regret the exposures, to use his euphemism, in my father’s brothel, with my dear Adela most of all.
“That’s it!” he said, almost in triumph.
He gave me a book, as I wanted to know more about the disease. And as I read it, my heart slid down to the depths of melancholy and despair, fully convinced as I was now that I had brought ruin not just to myself but to my dear sister and our Angela.
When Corito delivered Angela, her womb, as I had already mentioned, was diseased and had to be removed. Angela, too, was sick from the start and I was filled with remorse that I was the cause of it all, not the sin that I had blamed earlier.
Would I now curse my father in his grave? And all those girls in Pasay? I never saw them again, not one, and I came to believe that, indeed, they had all perished at the Rizal Memorial Stadium. Or should I blame Colonel Masuda? It was he, I am sure now, who gave it to Adela, refusing as he did to touch her till the last night when Adela, in her ignorance, mounted him. In his refusal to touch her, I also realized how much he had cared for the exquisite prostitute, perhaps much, much more than I ever had.
How to face Corito now, to tell her the truth. We had never talked about it at length, but we had both blamed our sin as having visited our daughter; as long as she was alive and always in need of care, that was God’s immutable way of reminding us of our guilt, for which there was no atonement, no absolution. Now, this sin was compounded by my youthful willfulness. I had brought perdition not just to my sister but to an innocent child as well.
I returned to Sta. Mesa in mid-morning; it was close to December, the weather was invigorating and cool and the rains had lifted. It was the part of the year when the garden was very green, when the blooms were shimmering red and yellow splotches on the ground and the sprays of violet orchids cascaded down from their wooden mounts. Corito was watering the orchids that Mother had loved, an interest she had inherited. She had put on weight now. Past thirty, she was heavy, with oncoming matronly bulges. She was in khaki overalls. I walked to her under the nylon netting that protected the van-das and the cattleyas from too much sun. Her brow was moist and we kissed briefly as we always did.
Where was Angela? It was a Saturday.
“Asleep in her room,” she said. “She’s not feeling well again. I will take her to the pediatrician in the afternoon.” Angela was in grade four at the Assumption. She was pretty, as my offspring should be, except that she was so thin.
“I know now what is wrong with her, with you, too. And of course, me most of all. We are all sick, Corito. It is all my fault. I gave it to you. Syphilis.”
She did not know what it was. I explained it to her
simply. “Venereal disease.” She dropped the water hose, squirting water on my face, my pants.
“No!” she cried. “No!” I held her as she shuddered and began to cry.
I dared not approach Dr. Avecilla about Corito and Angela. Manila doctors gossip although they are supposed to be discreet about their patients. Not only would he know that Corito and Angela were sick, but he would also quickly come to a conclusion about our relationship.
I did not care if it was still many days before the Christmas vacation. I had given so much money to those Assumption nuns that I could ask them anything. I rented a bungalow in Kowloon Tong in Hong Kong. Lincoln Road—a residential area, with a garden. I brought along three maids so Corito would not have to do any work. I bought a black Bentley and hired a driver. We were there for a vacation, and some medical consultations, for Angela most of all.
The gynecologist at the Anglican Hospital understood, perhaps, why Corito and Angela were being treated in Hong Kong. She didn’t ask questions other than what was required professionally.
December finally. Hong Kong is lovely, cool and dry, unlike the damp chill that often pervades Baguio at this time of year. Those skyscrapers that now stud the Peak were just being built and Kowloon was a warren of old brick buildings with antique shops overflowing with goods from Britain and China, which had been taken over by the Communists.
Confined as we were to a smaller house, we had a splendid family life, and we motored often to the New Territories, to the small immemorial towns where we dined in unpretentious restaurants. I had to commute to Manila, however, getting there in the morning and returning to Hong Kong the next day, or spending a night there. Sometimes it was my people who came over, for if there is one thing I have learned in business, it is to be on top of things, to ascertain the details even if I left most of these to subordinates. I am systematic not just in how I organize my time and my activities but also in storing data in my mind and compartmentalizing decisions.
At this point, perhaps, my dear reader will wonder whatever happened to Camilo, Corito’s husband. The marriage was never consummated because of his incapability. He knew Angela was not his, but he tried to make it appear to the public that she was. It was his name, after all, which Angela bore. I had the marriage annulled—yes, this can easily be done; for what did I give all that money to Catholic charity? In time, too, Angela’s family name became Cobello.
Corito could take only so much; Camilo’s ultimate insult was when Corito caught him in her own bedroom with one of the drivers. He was going to make a lot of trouble when Corito drove him out of Sta. Mesa, and I did not want that. I talked with him and, at first, he was adamant—he wanted a share of Corito’s wealth. I brought in Jake, my chief legal counsel (he was a classmate at the Ateneo), who then lectured him on the law, that he could not get a centavo if Corito refused. He had to accept my offer, which was quite substantial; it would enable him to live comfortably and even continue with his sexual proclivity. With the money, he set up a Spanish restaurant. I visited it several times and he greeted me affectionately, with the usual brotherly hug and all its innuendoes. He turned out to be a very good cook. His lengua is the best tongue in Manila.
But back to Hong Kong. In that month Corito and I abstained completely. I sometimes wonder if Angela ever suspected that I am her father, particularly when she grew older. When Corito kissed me, it did not appear as a sisterly kiss. I was often angry with her because she did it not just before Angela but before other people. It was her way of laying claim on me and such an attitude became a heavy burden for me to bear, especially when her jealousy became more and more pronounced. Since it was no longer possible for me to satisfy her insatiable hunger for sex, it soon became my very embarrassing duty to pimp for her. I use the word “pimp” categorically. It was I who paid her new sexual partners.
I did not leave Manila for Hong Kong without being sure my blood was cleansed. Massive doses of penicillin did it and, thank God, the disease had not yet developed resistance to the drug. Angela and Corito had three successive blood tests in Hong Kong before they left for Manila; I wanted to be sure about them, too. But as Dr. Avecilla said, even if it disappeared, it had already done much damage. The near future would soon reveal with unerring clarity how badly it had afflicted our bodies. I read that, in its advanced state, it damages the brain and creates those conditions sometimes defined as dementia. Have I been behaving erratically? If I have, my colleagues can always attribute it to eccentricity. Is there anything illogical in my thinking, buffoonery in my character? I doubt it. And if I am to be faulted, it will not be for my continuing high regard of myself, my crippling self-esteem, but only because I know I am surrounded by lesser men, by ignoramuses who have never scaled the heights as prodigiously as I have.
My stay in Hong Kong was not wasted; in fact, that month in the Crown colony opened my eyes to the business possibilities there, and in this I was ably assisted by Ann Lee.
I had experience by then in real estate development, and looking at Hong Kong, its central location, its sense of placid order sustained by the British, I knew it was an excellent place to invest in. I saw the owner of the bungalow we were renting and offered him a handsome price that he couldn’t refuse. I also surveyed properties in the Mid-levels and still other properties in Kowloon. I wanted the old bungalow torn down and an apartment building erected on it, not a tall one like what I built later on in the Mid-levels; I needed an architectural firm in Hong Kong. It would have been easier to bring my people in from Manila, but I thought that if I had business in Hong Kong, I should get involved with the natives.
And that was how I met Ann Lee. Her father was a Shanghai tycoon who early enough saw the imminent fall of China to the Communists; so, as early as 1948, before they took over, he pulled up stakes and moved to Hong Kong with his whole family. When I met her, Ann Lee had just returned from the United States, where she had studied architecture and interior design. Immediately, we struck a congenial relationship that was to bloom soon enough, and would continue well into the future. She turned out to be not only loyal but also a good business adviser.
The architectural firm where Ann worked as a senior partner was recommended to me by the designer Hale Deller and the antiques dealer and interior decorator Carlota Hurstmann, names identified with the Hong Kong expatriate establishment. I met them at one of those ritzy parties in Manila. At first I found Ann a bit aloof, and this surprised me a little, particularly after I learned that she had studied in the United States. It turned out later, as I got to know her better, that this cultivated reticence was a kind of defense mechanism. It became her; she was tall and regal, with a classic cameo face such as those seen in ancient paintings of Chinese court ladies. She was rich, single and fair game for anyone with intelligence and charm. And these qualities, to be sure, were easily mine.
I picked her up from her Queens Road office and walked to the Star Ferry terminal where the Bentley—regal, black and shiny—was waiting. The Bentley was big. I would have preferred the Vanden Plas Princess, which was bigger and more comfortable, but it was not available and it would take six months for an order to be delivered. A Silver Cloud Rolls was suggested, but the Rolls was not my kind of ostentation; it was too common and everyone who could afford it could hire one. As a matter of fact, when Corito vacationed in Hong Kong before I got the Kowloon Tong house, she was always picked up at the airport by the Peninsula Hotel Rolls.
I had not meant to impress Ann Lee, but that really was what happened. “I see,” she said pleasantly, “you have very good taste in motor cars.”
Kowloon was not so crowded then with all those soaring buildings, but Mongkok, which we passed, was where the masses congealed.
It was a perfect, unblemished November day. She was in her late twenties, with skin as pure as it was fair. And when she smiled, there was a dimple on her left cheek. Her English was American not English, as was the case with many of the Hong Kong Chinese, who were educated in England. I had met h
er only the week previous; I had gone to her office—one whole floor of the building—and was surprised to find the senior partner so young, and a woman at that. I did not know then that the architectural firm belonged to her father, one of several enterprises George Lee—that was his Christian name—owned in Hong Kong. He also had business interests in Singapore, Bangkok and Jakarta. One thing about the overseas Chinese, their network encompasses all of Southeast Asia.
I had furnished the Kowloon Tong house haphazardly; I had no professional help but, even so, Ann found it well upholstered and warm. When I told her I did the decorating myself, stuffing the house with odds and ends from Lane Crawford and Cat Street, she said that my taste was instinctive, probably acquired from my youngest days. She was right, for that was what had happened, exposed as I was to the genteel atmosphere of the house in Sta. Mesa.
I had told her of my plan to tear the old house down and build a four-story apartment building on the lot, each floor a single unit, with the top floor being mine. The rest would be rented out so that the house could pay for itself.
She could see at once the business sense behind it, although she was sorry that such a fine old house would have to be destroyed.
I told her I was interested in acquiring property on the Peak, and perhaps in the New Territories as well. Would she like to go into some form of partnership with me? Locate and help develop those properties?
She gave me one of those tentative smiles, then suggested that we drive over to Taipo in the New Territories—she knew an excellent restaurant there, uncrowded, with something like home cooking. “My father is a gourmet,” she said. “He found this place and we often go there.”
It was high noon when we reached the Taipo restaurant, actually a ramshackle place crowded with working-class patrons. I did not know much about Chinese cooking then—Ann Lee’s father introduced me to its variety and finesse afterward. She did the ordering, mushrooms and vegetables, noodles that were unusually thick and hot and fish head soup.
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