Manila Noir

by Jessica Hagedorn

  “Do you think there are parallel universes and we are stuck in the one made up only of bad movie plots?”

  “I think we are stuck in the bad movie plots we make ourselves.”

  “I think we are stuck in someone’s movie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Magsalin looks hard through Chiara Brasi’s shades. Chiara does not take them off even when she accidentally gets butter on them from the cinnamon buns. Now that Chiara has already buttered the pan de sal, she starts buttering the cinnamon buns, which are already buttered. Magsalin does not detect irony in her monotone.

  “You know that is only margarine,” Magsalin says. “It just looks like butter.”

  Chiara ignores her.

  Chiara lectures, moving her slim hands in geometric patterns, enunciating her vowels, at some points cocking her head to one side as if she is looking for the right word, her wide mouth pouted upward as she brushes her sleek hair off her shoulder, revealing her lack of cleavage. Magsalin once saw her on Inside the Actors Studio and feels the need to reach for an index card in case the filmmaker expects her to ask Big Questions.

  “I think we are stuck in someone’s movie, and the director is still laying out his scraps of script, trying to figure out his ending. He does not have an ending. Everything around him has the possibility of becoming part of his mystery plot—his lost love for his wife, that fly over there licking the sugar on the bun, the clown in the corner playing with a knife, a moment in a mirror store in New York when he sees himself replicated through his camera lens in all the mirrors except he cannot see his eyes, the unanswered questions about a writer’s death, the unanswered questions about a country’s war, that schoolboy carefully folding a white shirt and tucking it neatly into a paper bag, a heart attack he has in 1977 when his movie is still not done, when it has a beginning and an ending but no idea, and twelve hundred feet of unedited stock, with takes, retakes, and other duplications. That is what we are: twelve hundred feet of unedited stock, doing things over and over, and we are waiting for the cut. But who is the director? What is our wait for? I would like to make a movie in which the spectator understands that she is in a work of someone else’s construction and yet as she watches she is devising her own translations for the movie in which she in fact exists. What is convenient about Balangiga is that it seems as if The Unintended was constructed out of the story of Samar’s parts, but it is also true that it’s the other way around. My father’s movie also produces, for us, the tale of Balangiga. This goes without saying. One story told may unbury another, and all the dead are resurrected. Recurrence is only an issue of not knowing how the film should end.”

  Magsalin takes an index card and reads aloud the first Big Question: “But is it about knowing how a film should end, or not knowing its shape?”

  “A film has no shape if it does not know its end.”

  Magsalin takes an index card and reads aloud the second Big Question: “But is it about knowing how a film should end, or the fact that it has no end, or its end is multiple, like desire’s prongs?”

  “Touché.”

  Magsalin takes an index card and reads aloud the third Big Question: “Do you know that a clown is going to kidnap you?”

  “In a mystery, clowns are always significant.”

  Magsalin takes an index card and reads aloud the last Big Question: “What is in the manila envelope?”

  “If you take it, you will see.”

  9. THE THRILLA IN MANILA

  “Okay,” says Magsalin, taking the envelope. “I’ll see what I can do about Samar. I know a few people who can help you.”

  “Thank you,” Chiara says in that annoying nasal monotone. “How do you get out of here?”

  “Just follow the signs. There are detours for the exits. They’re renovating, you know.”

  “Are you leaving too?”

  Magsalin thinks she will take her up on it, on the forlorn implication in Chiara’s little-girl voice that she would like some company, that she is scared of Cubao and her impulsive clueless spiritual adventure, which only people as rich or thoughtless as Chiara can suddenly get in their heads and then stupidly follow through; and yes, Magsalin will lead her to the exit and get her safely to her hotel.

  “I want to take a spin around the mall,” Magsalin says. “I’ll hang around here a bit. I’ll see you later.”

  The waitress offers the check. Chiara hands over a credit card. The waitress shakes her head. Magsalin takes out her non-Hermés bag and pays with cash.

  “Thanks,” Chiara says.

  “No problem.”

  “My father saw that fight, you know. Ringside.”

  “Ali-Frazier?”

  “Yeah. The Thrilla in Manila. We lived nearby in—let’s see, it’s in my notebook. Greenhills.”

  “That’s in Pasig, not Quezon City.”

  “Oh. The Internet was wrong.”

  “Figures.”

  “The Thrilla in Manila,” Chiara repeats, and then she gets up, just like that, leaving Magsalin and the pan de sal shop.

  Bitch.

  Chiara is in the dark hallway, and Magsalin has to follow behind. The filmmaker is blocking Magsalin’s exit and gazing, as if mentally noting its pros and cons as a film location, at the boarded-up spaces beyond Philippine Airlines, the scaffolding that might be a promised escalator or a remnant of someone’s change of mind.

  “Muhammad Ali Mall. What an interesting tribute.”

  “Ali Mall,” Magsalin corrects, wondering if Chiara will ever budge from the door. “Yeah, it’s dumb.”

  “Dumpy.” Chiara turns, smiling but not moving. “But not dumb. It’s sweet. I like tributes. I’ve read all the books about that fight, you know. I guess because I see it through the lens of my childhood. After my father finished The Unintended, you know, after Manila, my parents divorced. I lived with my mom. The last time we were together was in Manila. The Thrilla in Manila. I’ve watched that match over and over again. On DVD. Round 6. When Ali says to Frazier—”

  “They tol’ me Joe Frazier was all washed up!”

  “And Frazier goes—”

  “They lied, champ—they lied!”

  “Hah!” Chiara claps her hands. “You do a mean Frazier.”

  “Thank you. Were you for Ali or Frazier?” Magsalin asks.

  “I love Muhammad Ali.”

  “Do you think he’s real?”

  “More real than I,” says Chiara. “He’s the Greatest.”

  Just for that, Magsalin thinks, she’ll do whatever this spoiled brat says.

  “Myself, I liked Frazier,” says Magsalin.

  “Really? But why?”

  “Because he wasn’t actually an ugly motherfucker. He was no gorilla. Except Ali, the director, made him up.”

  A motif of the renovated Ali Mall is a series of commissioned portraits of the boxer framed in glass at strategic points, like altars. The reflexive signifiers, most of them tacky, are not tongue-in-cheek. They are serious gestures of veneration. One has a wilted flower on its ledge, as if left by an admirer (candy wrappers and cigarette stubs also decorate the shrine). While the corporate intention of co-opting the Greatest in order to shill shoes is obvious, the beauty of the intertextual display—the portraits that modify the mall, and the mall that is an appositive of the portraits—is that presence confounds purpose. The portraits do make Ali as absurd as the corporation promoting meaning from dubious intentions. Passing them by her first time in amusement, at another in alarm, at several outright laughing, Magsalin spends the afternoon searching the mall for all the images. One, a giant reproduction like an advertisement, is done in painstaking flatness. Ali’s nose is as big as the letter A in the word CHAMPION. It has graffiti all over its wall. But when you look close, expecting obscenity, instead you find sincere compliments, some of them mistaken: ali is da greatest! I saw the HBO, THRILLA!, r.i.p. Muhammad Ali, floats like a butterfly, sings like a bee. At this point, though perhaps in the future it will change, Muhammad
Ali is in fact still alive. Oddly, even the errors count. In another, a cubist Ali in a relaxed pose, clearly allusive, looks like Pablo Picasso in an early self-portrait, wearing a white camisa. Another illustrates a Filipino pantheon of assorted black idols—Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, the kid from Diff’rent Strokes, Gloria Gaynor of “I Will Survive” fame, and their forefather, Muhammad Ali—descending in order somewhat like Marcel Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, but not. To pan on each of these is a slice of time, precious in Chiara’s movie, so the viewer does wonder at its meanings, juxtaposed as they are with a scene in Magsalin’s story—a kidnapping left hanging.

  PART III

  THEY LIVE BY NIGHT

  OLD MONEY

  BY

  JESSICA HAGEDORN

  Forbes Park

  OUT OF THE BLUE

  Paco texted me, asking for a ride. No explanation, no hey man I miss u, no please. It had been—according to the dates crossed off on my calendar—exactly five weeks since he’d disappeared. Everyone thought he was dead. I texted Paco right back, like nothing was out of the ordinary: k cu soon :D

  I couldn’t resist signing off with that smiley face. It was the kind of corny crap that got on Paco’s nerves.

  THE WAIT

  Three more days of heavy rain went by. The sewers backed up in certain parts of Manila. No one seemed too concerned. On the fourth day, I got another text from Paco, this time naming a location. Then another one seconds later: dont b L8.

  His terse, cryptic messages were oddly flattering. Was I—the balikbayan son of a dying nobody father—the only one left in Manila he could trust?

  FAMILY

  About Nicanor, my dying nobody father. Tita Moning had paid his hospital bill and taken him in after the doctors at Philippine General let her know that there was nothing more they could do for him. Pop had nowhere else to go. His young, pregnant Japayuki girlfriend was long gone.

  Moning was Pop’s sister, a wiz at making money. Her savvy little start-ups had made her a rich woman: Moning’s Vulcanizing & Auto Repair, Moning’s Washeteria & Dry Clean, Moning’s Ang Sarap! Cupcake Café. Like everyone else in my family, I leaned on my aunt whenever I was in trouble. Like when I lost my job and went into rehab and was behind on rent and living on food stamps and getting pretty fucking desperate. My own mother was shacked up with this redneck in Reno and—just like my pop—couldn’t be counted on for anything. But Tita Moning came through like she always did. Wire transfer, sympathy, and not too many probing questions.

  So when she Skyped to say that I should get my sorry ass out of Long Beach and back to Manila, how could I say no?

  I’ll pay your airfare. You can stay with us, Junior. My new house has plenty bedrooms. And a swimming pool.

  That’s nice, Tita Moning.

  She let out one of those heavy Filipino sighs. Your father does not have long for this earth.

  I know, Tita Moning. I know.

  Cancer of the brain, lungs, liver, esophagus— Got it, Tita Moning. Jeez.

  The sharpness of my tone took my aunt by surprise. She looked like she wanted to reach through the laptop screen and smack me good and hard.

  After a few seconds of silence, Tita Moning dropped another bomb. She’d gotten me a job.

  WHAT?

  It’s waiting for you, Junior. My kumadre’s son manages a call center in Pasig.

  But I don’t know anything about—

  So what? You sound American and that’s what counts.

  MABUHAY

  My cousin Louie met me at the airport the night I arrived. All smiles and hugs, scrutinizing me furtively from head to toe. My no-brand jeans and plain black T-shirt undoubtedly a huge disappointment. We used to be close as kids. But when my mom left my pop and whisked me off to the States without warning, Louie and I lost touch. I was keeping up with him on Facebook, though. Louie called himself a men’s fashion blogger and had quite a following, though his blog was nothing more than snapshots of stoned guys in clubs flaunting the latest hipster gear. Last time I checked, Louie had 5,151 Facebook “friends.” I was one of them.

  The car was a brand-new Lexus, the driver a solemn man named Fausto. He addressed me as “sir” and Louie as “señorito.” Instead of having Fausto take us straight to my aunt’s house like he was supposed to, Señorito Louie ordered him to make a detour to the Fort.

  Wait till you see how Fort Bonifacio’s changed, Louie gushed. Talagang galing! Then he asked, You still understand Tagalog, Nick?

  My Tagalog sucks, but I get the gist.

  Up ahead was a glitzy fortress that took up the entire block, pulsing with lights. Louie ordered Fausto to drop us off and find somewhere to park. And don’t forget to keep your phone on, Louie said in English.

  Fausto nodded. Oo po, señorito.

  It was already past midnight. Won’t your mom be pissed off at us? I remember asking Louie.

  She’ll blame Fausto, Louie said. Maybe even fire him.

  GALING, ANO?

  The line of trendsetters snaked around the block. We strolled up to the front of the line, ignoring the resentful stares of everyone around us. The gatekeeper stood by the entrance with a couple of security guys. Louie caught me eyeing the guy’s shoes. They were black and silver bowling shoes, really slick.

  Prada. I have the same pair in gold, Louie said. Galing, ano?

  Mr. Prada waved us in.

  LAST OF THE COÑO KIDS

  It felt good in there. The delirious mob thrashing around to a thumping soundtrack, desperate to have fun. We grabbed a couple of drinks at the downstairs bar and watched them dance. I wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but there you go. Three months of sobriety right out the window. Louie kept making vicious comments about people’s haircuts, outfits, fat asses, no-asses, who was definitely hot and who wasn’t. It was funny at first, but got old really fast.

  And then they walked in. It was really the guy who first caught my attention. Sweeping into the club like he owned it, with those green eyes and a killer smile. A swanlike girl in a tiny dress and high-heeled boots hung onto his arm, like she was afraid she might fall down or something.

  Who’s that? I asked Louie.

  He goes by Paco.

  And the girl?

  Gala.

  She a model?

  When you can get her to show up, Louie snickered.

  I was introduced as Louie’s long-lost cousin from California. Paco and Gala were clearly coked up, Paco in an expansive, convivial mood. He invited us to join them upstairs in the cordoned-off VIP lounge. Where he said the service was one on one, the music different and not as loud. We slid into a spacious booth in a shadowy corner.

  Welcome to my satellite office, Paco said. We all laughed.

  Gala complained about the air-con being on too high. Paco gave her his jacket. A waiter scurried over and said drinks were on the house. Paco didn’t seem surprised. He told the waiter to bring a bottle of Rémy for the table, without asking us what we wanted. Then he lit a cigarette. I noticed the tattoo of thorns around his wrist.

  Q&A

  Most of us can’t wait to get out of this country and live somewhere else. Why’d you move back here, Nick?

  I heard the surfing’s awesome.

  It is. You a surfer, Nick?

  Are you?

  I’m a businessman. Ready for a toot?

  UH-OH

  I followed him to the men’s room like a meek little lamb. We locked ourselves in one of the stalls. Two searing hits of Paco’s coke and I lost my inhibition. I leaned in and kissed his mouth. The kiss was gruff and quick. He pushed me away with a smile.

  Not so fast, kid.

  We went back to the table without saying a word. Louie and Gala were waiting for us.

  Can we have some too? Gala cooed.

  BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

  Paco dealt out of an apartment in one of those creaky, prewar buildings in Malate that his family owned. He could get you anything, Louie said. Even the latest and
most expensive high, which was crack. You’re fucking kidding me, I said. Crack?

  Louie shrugged. He always insisted I come along with him to score, for some mysterious reason. Misery loves company, I guess. Paco’s clientele was small and definitely A-list, with money to burn. Louie—a thirty-year-old brat who depended on his mother’s generous monthly allowance and had never worked a day in his life—was one of the lucky few. I knew I was out of my league, and made every effort to stay away. Plus, I couldn’t stand Paco acting like I didn’t exist. He’d been cold toward me since that night at the club, and had eyes only for Gala. Once I started working at the call center, it got a little easier to stay away. The job sucked, but I actually got off saying shit like: American Express Customer Service, Ralph speaking. How may I help you?

  Ralph. Steve. Randy. Whatever. I finally made it to an AA meeting held in this sweet little community center close to my aunt’s house in Quezon City. But there were too many bornagain freaks in the room and I never went back. As the weeks of stifling heat and torrential rains dragged on, I resolved:

  1. To stop thinking about Paco.

  2. To stop hanging out with Louie.

  3. To not get fired.

  4. To buy a car.

  5. To move out of Tita Moning’s and rent my own apartment.

  6. To help my father die a dignified death.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  I did manage to buy a car. A 2005 Corolla from the call center agent who worked in the cubicle next to me. The kind of car that Louie wouldn’t be caught dead driving or riding in, which was fine by me.

  SPIRAL

  One night the craving was so strong, I slipped out of the house and drove to Paco’s apartment. The maids were asleep. My aunt and uncle were in Cebu, overseeing the opening of another Ang Sarap! franchise. Louie was at some mall, covering a men’s fashion show for his fucking blog. No one was around to ask where I was going. My father lay in the downstairs guest room dreaming his morphine dreams, watched over by the private nurse Tita Moning had hired. I peered into the room on my way out the door. His mouth was slack and open. He didn’t look like my father.