Herself

by Hortense Calisher

  The Sunday night affair was at the Manila Press club. Small dinner in private dining room, a handsome big building. Passed the squatters on my way to breakfast—whiskey-box wall is Peter Dawson boxes—a whole wall of P. D. Dirty urchins everywhere, a music box (how cd it be a radio?) blaring within. Dunne says they have a squatter’s assoc., refuse to vacate to allow building on the sites—buildings of course that wd have nothing to do with housing them. Abt 45,000 families in M. live this way—since families are large, this may mean 250,000 people.

  Dinner consisted mostly of journalists, though everybody “writes” here. They are quick to award the names here—even at the U.P., where I met some who cd be only undergrads, one and another wd be introduced as a “poet,” a “dramatist.” Remember, at such times, how I craved such identity at that age, and wd have relished it. Might have helped too. If people say you are a writer, then you begin to feel yrself to be one.

  But, to the dinner. I have talked so much that the questions and answers are blurring from group to group—here I remember I was asked about what a writer’s “integrity” should consist of, much more talk about professional questions, etc. Rony Diaz, one of their better short story writers, was there but did not talk much. Woman writer—Alfon, just hauled into court by Holy Name Society and convicted of pornography—she is appealing it, but the Caths are all powerful. She was fined. Has 4 children—beautifully dressed and probably rich. When found out ages of my children (this interchange all in the ladies’ room) she said, “Oh writing is not difficult because of the children. It is the husbands who are difficult. I want to travel like you” … and she sighed.

  Two gate-crashers had arrived at dinner—Nina Estroda Puyat, a beautiful woman (Chinese-Malay) whom Morales, on my right, whispered was a rich dilettante writer, and her escort, a Baron von Hagen, whom she introduced enthusiastically as having an interest in Lit., “and of course never had anything to do with Nazis.” He, at opp end of table from me, was my focus as I talked, cd not avoid sight of him—face screwed up toward a vanished monocle, twirling what looked to be a silver pencil on a chain, endlessly, somewhat after the manner of The Caine Mutiny’s Queeg. Asked a question or two in the English accent educated Germans used to have. He sells machinery. I wonder. Good-looking man, in the straight-backed, somewhat repellent way his type is.

  I am getting extremely adept at repartee—always a game I have loved but try to restrain in normal society—fear this constant seeking of my “opinion,” the deference etc., is giving it far too free rein. Cd not help knowing that I was doing well. But for some good reasons too. Much talk—of the burning question here—shall they write in Eng. or Tagalog? Later in bed it occurred to me that the only answer I cd give was that the meaning must come first. It will depend on what audience they wish to address, also since every writer decides most such things for himself, it ought to be on an individual basis. But, they have romantic, Latin-revolutionary selves, like to travel in groups (also self-preservatory here, since they are not well known in the world) and think they can decide such things by ukase. Not likely to be so decided—or any literary matter. Alfon writes both ways, as she chooses. Said problem did not trouble her and I felt the others disapproved of her for this. Women are obviously the real individualists, the real revolutionaries, when once doing something apart from family circle.

  On Monday I met late in afternoon, their “merienda” time, with a group in the “Listening-room” at the U.P. Recently set up, with mikes, phonograph, lounges, etc., for all-purpose meetings. “Fair Lady” Album was playing as I entered. Very lively discussion; the Pres. of the Club was a nice young man, eager to pin me down abt “ideologies”—didn’t literature have an obligation to portray man in a “social situation”?—etc. I won them over pretty quickly—me and my jokes—said that surely a social situation was a part of lit., being a part of life and inextricable from, but that writers of past had been writing in terms of “ideologies” without consciously carrying such imprint, all thru history. Delivered usual imprecations against writing from labels. Was asked, by one soft-voiced girl about “pornography.” Delivered usual imprec.—(without mentioning church)—about restrictions, censorship, serious art containing whole of life not being pornographic, etc.

  These students, grads, yng faculty, etc., most of them, belong to U.P. Writer’s Club, which has published a review The Literary Apprentice for some 30 yrs. Showed me some back numbers. Very respectable job—better than some of ours, and remarkable, when one considers fact are writing in Eng. Poetry, however, (like Leonard Casper’s Six Fil. Poets collection) a court poetry of sensibility, love-moans, etc., mostly free verse—frequently can’t be sure whether an image which is odd comes from the intended violence to the language that a real poetic image achieves, or from a certain insecurity abt language. Was asked if, from whatever I knew of Fil. lit., I cd say what I thought wd develop from it. Said I knew little, but from sight of city—mentioned squatters, lightly—I wd think they wd have a lit. that treated of these problems and concerns—cd not see how they cd avoid.

  Afterward went to a restaurant with a group, Dunne, Miss Moreno, and about 8 students, of whom the most noticeable were Rony Diaz and Christobal. They have read everything—more than I probably. Intense, vital young men. Diaz, who had applied for a Fulbright and failed. Quieter Christobal (who has been at most of my talks and asked insistently abt function of critic, plus slightly pointed and Anti-Amer. questions) is flashier, but very brilliant. We even got into such byways as Herbert Read—they know all of Bellow, Gold, and contemp Amer. (Later, in talking to Dunne and Morales, found that C. had been one of kids who picketed embassy during the Roe case—sailor of ours who killed a F. and was whisked away for home-trial instead of being tried here). One remembered remark (most of this group is anti-Cath): Adrian C. said, of my projected talk at the Ateneo de Manila—Jesuit College—“They will kill you with dogmatic kindness.”

  Tuesday, which was yesterday, went to embassy in morning to do the elaborate fiscal business necessary to being paid, and had the radio interview. Not nearly as good as in Japan. Interviewer read my dossier aloud—which had to be corrected as it was an ancient one—insisted on briefing me “I will ask you this, and then this … etc.” I tried to stop him twice—saying it wd be better if we did this cold, but he obviously cd not get away from his blueprint. Behind me the gals of the recording room engineers and staff, incl. McGill (former radio and crime-story writer, for Cavalcade of America) were watching. McGill runs the thing on routine lines, I fancy. Interview probably successful from Amer. viewpoint—he proceeded to ask me set questions and I to try to get away from “set,” but he went doggedly on. A dud, as far as I was concerned. Capistrano, Bill’s assistant, looked on sardonically—I think he understands.

  Later to lunch as McG.’s guest, with Bill, at Overseas Press. Wonderful prawns again. Mrs. M. joined us, recognize her as rather drink-faced dame I had met at Barrio Fiesta. Their 15-yr-old son came in too, from American school—hamburgers, coke, and talk of school paper. (Me homesick for Pete.) They are all enjoying themselves here: as McG., who is nice, bluff type, said he found he was too old to try the TV rat-race; this is undoubtedly a fine haven.

  Then to hotel for siesta before meeting with “Chip” Bohlen, our Ambassador. Naturally wanted to be in gd form for this—and naturally, of all times, fell asleep and awoke 2½ minutes before embassy driver was reported downstairs. Dressed in 5 minutes, but made it, feeling oddness that daytime sleep always brings—from Mars I come. Had some ten minutes or so talk with “unidentified escort,” probably Barnsley, head of USIS here, before I was invited in by Bohlen to handsome office with full view of harbor, Bataan and Corregidor in the distance.

  Bohlen is a stopper. Pat of course knew him in Moscow, and had told me that to their minds, and many others, he was the top career man in our For. Service, the peer and better of most top men in other services. And of course, there was a loud outcry in the papers when Ike sent him here, a relatively mino
r post. He’s a linguist, knows Fr. perfectly, studied Rus. before it was necessary to, etc. Pat of course, had not mentioned his looks—sooperb. He has an air of authority without having an air of an air of—easy manner. Talked smoothly—not yet knowing of course that I wd have no trouble there. Discoursed on the Phil—obviously a trained and subtle observer. Broke ice by showing me a clip from one of their papers (when we were talking of their language troubles), said—hoped he wdn’t shock me—no, guess if I wrote for The New Yorker I was old enough to take.

  Was an indescribably funny news clip abt a F. man attacked by another who had cut off his testicles. Yng man “disgustedly” retrieved same from garbage can where thrown, ambulance called, and testicles were sewn back on, but last statement of victim, “What’s the use?”

  In talking of Nakpil (Carmen) I said heard she was convent-bred—this seemed to breed female satirists, as with M. McCarthy. A glint of amusement in his eye, and again, of amusement when I said I had talked so much this tour, was thinking of taking a vow of silence, and getting rather doubtful of myself as I heard me being inexcusably glib. He quickly interpolated—“a very necessary and useful thing.” Apologized for not knowing my work—Barnsley who was with us and had not said one word, asked about novel—I said its locale was “in the mind”—and added, or muttered, “a safe place.”

  Also we talked abt students of previous night—I indicated I thought too many middle-aged grant-getters were taking their share. Bohlen obviously interested in my reports on the Question and Answer business I had made to work on Japs, also in that I was going to meet Senator Claro Recto on my own own request. Upshot—asked me to dine informally with him and wife—only day we both had free was tonight, if dinner is not planned after the Iowa writer’s meeting. Hope not—hope can dine with them—as certainly wd like to see more of the A., and have learned from somewhere that wife is in his class too.

  Sent back to Hotel, almost exactly opposite embassy, by car, because “Dewey Blvd is hard to cross” said Barnsley, and it is—and because no one walks, including me. At 5:46 Fred Morales called to have me dine “informally with him and wife.” I safely in black—not sure of informality. They have very handsome suburban walled house—rather a F. version of Stegners’—as he teased later, wife, is top dentist in F.—which allows him to be a professor. He delighted that I liked Diaz, who is his pet, also Christobal. I asked if I cd help get them to States—he said of course if I dropped a word to Bohlen. Dunne, who is new, and whom I’d asked;, said it was all done by committees and he didn’t know how to see that I cd help—though obviously he wanted to help me do it. (Nice guy, former Fulbright in France, literature. Short, about 28, Southern but not egregiously so, nice features with long curly eyelashes—my height makes these unavoidably evident. Have told him abt C.—decided to because I wanted to—nice to talk about him with some one—explaining that the “husband” in all the newspaper articles about me was not the one I was going to join in Tabriz.)

  Friday, Oct. 3rd.

  Morning and rainy. Wrote the above just now. Pace has increased here, more people want to meet, so a lot of spaces in itinerary, originally blank, have been filled. Cd not dine with Ambassador and probably will not see again, since our programs will not allow.

  Back to the Morales house. … Fed sherry and “atis”—custard apple. Looks like a hand grenade. Delicate flavor, many seeds about size of watermelon seeds—meat bland, more like mango than papaya, very good. (Fruits are in incredible profusion here and they make ices and ice creams of all of them—many new to us.) Two other guests, one a very shy man whose name I did not catch—writer of the ’30s, old friend of Fred M.’s. (Later Fred told me that his shyness—came to restaurant with us but not theater—was caused by second guest, Dr. Alzona, since she is upper class, he not.)

  Dr. Alzona was at first incredibly charming—a tiny bluestocking (Ph.D. Radcliffe, studied at Harvard and other grad. schools—history)—with her dainty, wizened brown face, I took her to be in sixties, but she might be younger—told me she was in mourning for her recently deceased mother—encased in the beautiful high-draped folds of a black tulle mestiza. This style is infinitely flattering to all—even old crones look elegant—their matchstick shoulders swirled with clouds of net. How much nicer than the styles which at home often decree that the boniness of age, or just thinness, must nevertheless be revealed. She has traveled widely, though before the war. Father an attorney—she is of the older Spanish-oriented generation, I imagine, like Recto. Very Civic conscious—very involved on innumerable committees, and probably a pillar of high life here—as we drove to restaurant I heard her gossiping with Belen Morales, in the back seat, like any club lady. Belen is plump, downright, nice as can be—a devoted gourmet cook—gave me recipe for chicken adobo, and was delighted to hear how to roast a turkey in a bag. (Aluminum foil is expensive here—though the M.’s appear to have plenty of money.)

  We dined in Chinatown, my first taste of Peking-style, since U.S.A. is all Cantonese. Very good—innumerable dishes, shrimp in sherry and in shells, hot spiced beef in shreds, the steamed bread—like dough half-baked and no crust. Etc. Later Fred took us to the “Manila Grand Opera Theatre”—half apologizing, half eager for me to see low-life theater—and right he was.

  No opera, it is actually a kind of “Palladium” music hall, vaudeville or what you will. One long feature-movie, American, just ending as we came in. A very large theater—crammed to roof. We saw a 3-act play, hr. or so in length, in Tagalog. Tale of infidelity in their equiv. of a penthouse—three comic servants—a fairy, a Chinese, and a dwarf about the size of a six-yr-old child. The Filos dislike and fear the growth of the Chinese community—merchant class which controls most of the retail trade in the islands, keeps to itself, used to intermarry but now does not, maintains its own schools and does not take out citizenship. This hotel, the newest, is owned by one, tho not, alas for me, managed by them apparently. Manager is named Covarrubias. Chinatown is one of the oldest quarters—still use vehicles out of another age—looked like a high barouche or fiacre to me—seats about two—horse drawn, very high wheels. Relic certainly of the sixties or not much later—one cd imagine ladies of their Spanish period, leaning out of them. Only vehicle usable in Islands during last war, Fred said—called “calesas.”

  The whole quarter lacks the, neatness of San Fr. Chinatown; this is tropic slum-style. Vendors, seated at braziers, selling hot-anonymities every where, the eternal profferers of lottery tickets, Amer. cigs, pearls—usually two big and very anonymous ones half concealed in a piece of tissue paper in the vendor’s palm—much more insistent and serious than around the big hotels on Dewey Blvd.

  The Tagalog play was a riot to them, and sometimes to me—farce-style one minute, melodrama the next—husband finally knifes wife while tangoing with her, then shoots himself. Rest of program included a very smartly done modern dance jazz ballet—Fred told me that the girls had adopted mod. musical comedy undress, etc., only recently, since the tour, some months ago, of Katharine Dunham! (So, Dunham, who started out with us as an “ethnic” dancer on a Rosenwald fellowship, is now having the reverse of ethnic effect here!) Last number was a soprano who has done a version of Carmen in Tagalog, but also appears on pop. stage. Opening chorus however was “Stout-hearted Men”—the “Mounties” number usually done at home by chorus boys virilely effeminate in Canadian M. uniforms. Here, done by Filo version of, in uniforms half military police, half I dunno. Also on program—an Amer. Negro—F. said he would be returned G.I, Crooner—sang in both languages, very appreciated by crowd. As to the fairy servant in the play—F. said they are quite Elizabethan abt that sort of humor here.

  And so home, after a pineapple sherbet at a coffee shop—how they like sweets! And to bed, unable to scrape from my mind the picture of the two little boys who stood to watch us as, emerging from F.’s little Br. car, not an elaborate one, we crossed the road, no more than a half-paved muddy ditch, to the theater. They were possibly wanting to watch t
he car, or just to watch us—but unlike the kids in our slum districts (“Watch your car mister, watch your car!”) there was no impudence. Our “poor” are nothing like these. There was a solemnity, a deep inborn awareness of difference and of resignation to it. I could not pass, and I could not give them money, which I wd have done if alone (even knowing the hopelessness of that—a sop to my conscience) because Fred had ignored them or rather passed them with a tiny shake of the head—embarrassed perhaps that he had to, in the company of the American.

  Now, I must to lunch with Carmen Nakpil—and still yesterday to recount. Will send this on.

  (Dear C:

  Your journal, so welcome, came from Italy. I am well. Only three weeks now.

  Meanwhile, this Sunday I fly down to Cebu and Dumaguete, southerly from here I think. No railroad, and no time for car.

  Everything so quick. I look down at a blue bruise on my knee and think, wherever did that come from, then recall that it matches a hole made in my stocking when I fell down the step at Keio U.—way back there, another country, another civilization—and only a week ago. And you must be feeling the same.

  Social pace continues fast here. More soon from H’kong or B’kok. I miss you.

  Love from me.

  H.)

  Saturday, October 4th

  Mailed journal to C. yesterday, and have forgotten where I left off. When one adheres to a schedule one has not cooked up for oneself, the days tend to blur. Where was I?

  Well, Wednesday noon, went to visit Claro Recto (Senator), Possessor of the largest legal practice in the P.I., he is also one of the fast-fading Spanish-oriented generation. Handsome offices. He is also reverenced by the intellectual element among the younger Nationalists—there are rumors that he was a J. “puppet,” but Bohlen said he had heard nothing to substantiate this. Meeting him—he is cagy, vain, intelligent, a wary old lion in his own concept, perhaps his legal mind wd inhibit any real breadth of thought, though he has the breadth of manner that comes from long dealings with many meetings with the “important” etc.