Ilustrado (25 page)

“There,” reads the poet. “In the Lupas Landcorp Mall . . .”

Rita (voice hushed perfunctorily): “Listen, dear. Do you think a writer writing about corruption will stamp out corruption?”

Poet: “ . . . by the men’s bathroom stall . . .”

Furio: “A writer writing about sex won’t get anybody pregnant. Look, pare. It’s nothing to do with Crispin or his infamous
Bridges.
It may have been a brilliant exposé, though we already know our country’s a feudal kingdom.”

Poet: “. . . by the mart for your shoes . . .”

Rita: “I honestly think it was Crispy’s excuse to live abroad, to escape the realities of here and now.”

Poet: “. . . by the bee that is jolly . . .”

Furio: “The problem lies in, quote unquote, lit-ah-ra-choor. It just doesn’t work. We have to beat our pens into plowshares and our plowshares into swords.”

Poet: “. . . by the fruit that is juicy . . .”

Rita: “Hello! Earth to Furio: The revolution will now be streamed onto the Internet. The seventies are gone, comrade. God’s been resurrected by Reverend Martin. We threw out our Red Books decades ago, lest our kids read them . . .”

Poet: “. . . by the frozen circle that’s for skating . . .”

Rita (continuing): “We’ve got mortgages. And children’s tuition and ballet lessons. Estregan’s dictatorship won’t last. Marcos is frozen, waiting for a final brownout to melt him completely into our forgetting. Maybe the jellyfish . . .”

Poet: “. . . I see how crooked is every straight guy . . .”

Furio: “I don’t know! Ferdinand Marcos, Jr., and the rest of his brood are holding higher office. For Christ’s sake, Imelda was a congresswoman. We forget too easil—”

Poet: “. . . encoffined in a closet . . .”

Rita: “Who’s forgotten? But in today’s
Gazette
, Bansamoro said that the economic boom is around the corner.”

Poet: “. . . of macho lonesomeness . . .”

Furio: “Bansamoro’s only establishing his own dynasty. The boom’s artificial, just remittances from Overseas Foreign Workers. First World dollars fattening a Third World pig.”

Poet: “. . . like a beer-battered butterfly . . .”

Me: “I haven’t been back here in years, but it does seem like OFW earnings are fueling investment.”

Poet: “. . . in a crystal chrysalis . . .”

Rita: “Not if you’re Wigberto Lakandula.”

Poet: “. . . on the plate placed before me . . .”

Furio: “Poor bastard. A slave to some pharaoh’s pyramid scheme.”

Poet: “. . . My mouth, my spoon. My cock, my tremulous fork.”

Rita (raising her voice to drown out the poet): “Listen, dear. I’m no aging rebel like Furio here. The truth is, if you want to write something that will elicit change, you have to be a journalist. We haven’t had a pure champion of the truth since Mutya Dimatahimik was stabbed outside her newspaper office in 1981 . . .”

Furio: “That was ’82. I’m still convinced it was Marcos’s bidding. Old Avellaneda was never the same after. If he didn’t have their child to look after, he’d have gone the way of Crispy. Batty.”

Rita: “I used to think Mutya died in vain. Because there are still reporters being gunned. But that comes with a free press in a lawless country. Crispin, however . . . I mean, nobody’s going to the States to murder someone nobody remembers, who’s writing a book nobody has seen. As soon as the hit man got to the U.S. he’d be dazzled by the factory outlet sales and disappear.”

Furio: “Spotted later managing a taqueria in West Hollywood. Green card in pocket.”

Rita: “The only one who’d want to kill Crispin is Crispin.”

Furio: “Well, everyone in this room would have, at some point. Honestly. He really gave it good in
Autoplagiarist
. . .”

Rita: “The truth hurts.”

Furio: “Only Crispin would have spite enough to kill someone. Himself included.”

Rita: “Himself especially.”

Furio: “One can only stomach so much failure.”

Me: “You really think he was a failure? But he won awards. He brought the spotlight to our nation’s literatu—”

Furio: “Awards are just luck in a literary lottery, pare. They didn’t make him the bus driver. And even if he was at the wheel for a spell, he didn’t have to be a hairy asshole about it.”

A third poet takes the stage and begins to read poetry in Tagalog. He also wears an
AFEMASIAN
T-shirt, but has a woven tribal sash tied around his head. His poems are translations of Emily Dickinson’s. He raps each Tagalog word angrily, his right hand coming down like a lion’s claw to emphasize each rhyme.

Me: “So you think maybe something other than literary failure was troubling him?”

Rita: “You know who you have to talk to? Marcel Avellaneda. If anyone will know, it’s him.”

Furio (snickering): “Yeah. Good luck getting him to talk. Or getting him beyond how much of a hack Crispy was.”

Me: “Did any of you like anything Crispin wrote? What about his masterpiece,
Because of
—”

Furio: “
Dahil Sa’Yo
? Not authentic enough. It didn’t capture the essence of the Filipino.”

Rita: “The trouble with that book is that in its obsession with the new, it was really just being old.”

Furio: “I preferred his work when he was merely trying for approval.”

Me: “And
The Europa Quartet?
”

Furio: “Elitism! To the max, man.”

Me: “The
Kaputol
series was pretty g—”

Rita: “Oh brother! Too Manila-centric.”

Me: “
Red Earth
? After all, it was about Marxist farmers . . .”

Furio: “Too provincial.”

Rita: “And polemical.”

Me: “
The Enlightened
?”

Rita: “Ugh. Postcolonial machismo.”

Me: “I suppose you didn’t like
Autoplagiarist
?”

Furio: “
That
I liked.”

Rita: “Only because it was so bad. Schadenfreude’s always delicious.”

Furio: “No, sister. It didn’t pull its punches. But if you’re speaking truth to power, don’t bore them. At least try to make them laugh.”

Rita: “
Autoplagiarist
’s problem was it was more
about
Filipinos than
for
Filipinos.”

Furio: “It’s the sort of book Americans love and Filipinos hate. We have to write for our countrymen.”

Rita: “Country
women
.”

Me: “Then why couldn’t he get it published abroad?”

Furio: “The same reason the rest of us Filipinos have a hard time.”

Me: “Did Crispin have some sort of hidden regret or—”

Rita: “As I said, ask Marcel. Crispin wasn’t the same after the breakup of the Cinco Bravos in the seventies. That’s why he left for the States.”

Furio (looking at the poet onstage): “I always thought he was a closet gay. He and Avellaneda were lovers. That’s why they hated each other so much.”

Rita: “Break out the homophobia! Always the Filipino way when they’re jealous.”

Furio: “Come on, how stage-directed was Crispy’s demise? What a drama queen. Spread-eagled. Lacking only a cross.”

Rita: “Or pentagram.”

Furio (chuckling): “That would make a good book.”

Rita: “Hasn’t it already been done? Pentagrams only appear in bestsellers.”

Furio: “See the sinister connection? Wouldn’t you peddle your soul?”

Rita: “What for?”

“Enough money,” Furio says, “to buy an Italian villa. Ever seen Gore Vidal’s house?”

“Aw,” Rita says, “you old sellout.” She slaps Furio on the shoulder.

“If only I could!” Furio smiles.

They look at each other contentedly.

“Are you going to the dinner after this?” she asks him, as if I wasn’t there.

“Nah,” he says. “I’ve a fete in Forbes Park for Arturo Lupas. I’m ghostwriting his book on the Lupas legacy. They’ll be serving canapés and Blue Label scotch.”

I drain my champagne so that I can hold up my empty glass. Furio and Rita raise their eyebrows at me and rotate in opposite directions, like automatons, each looking for someone else to talk to.

A fourth reader, gangly and tomboyish, takes the stage. I hurry to leave.

In the bookshop downstairs, I search for books on or by Crispin. The aisles between the shelves are empty. They smell of glue and mosquito repellant. Books are well categorized, though the prelaunch crowd has haphazardly reshelved them, spines facing inward, the clear plastic packaging sloppily replaced. A frumpy shopgirl sits at the cash box, texting on her cell phone. She looks upset, as if blaming me for keeping her there. The poet’s verse arrives downstairs in a murmur. Her voice peters out into applause. The clapping blends with the rain. A man comes on, shouting: “Welcome to my launch! Thank you for braving the end of the world!” Laughter and cheers.

A lone copy of
The Enlightened
separates two rows of books on the shelf, its cover facing me. When I reach for it, it jumps backward. The rows of books slump together. “Hey!” I call out. Through the gap,
The Enlightened
vanishes. A figure moves. I peek through. Returning my curiosity is a pretty eye, half hidden behind a lock of black hair. It blinks. A hand loops the hair behind an ear (revealing the sparkle of a diamond stud). A gold charm bracelet tinkles (stirrup, horseshoe, saddle, boot). The eye scrunches. A giggle. “Oh, fuck!” a voice says, like a child who’s just learned the word. “Sorry!”

I go to the end of the aisle and peek around the corner.

A cutie-pie of a girl stands before me, smiles, and proffers the book. “You touched it first,” she says. She’s petite, early twenties. She curls a lock of her long hair around her finger. She’s wearing khaki capris and one of those T-shirts printed to look like a tuxedo.

“No, no,” I reply, “that’s fine. It’s not one of his best. Maybe even his most derivative.”

“Oh, great. Thanks.” She runs a hand over the cover. It is cartoony and features a man on horseback leading a group of riders. There is even a sun-bleached skull in the foreground, its shadow forming the letters in the title. “Nice cover,” she says.

“It’s an early work. I’d suggest his later stuff.”

She gives a crooked grin. “I wish. I’m doing part of my thesis on him, for my undergrad. One more sem, then I’m free. Yay!”

“I knew him, actually. I mean, Salvador. I read all his stuff. He was, um, like a mentor to me in. In New York City.”

“You’re from New York? That’s cool. You actually knew him?”

“I sure did. And I am. I mean, I’m from here, originally. But I’ve lived in Manhattan for some years. Master’s.”

“Really? Where?”

“Oh, Columbia. Are you a writer?”

“I wish! I, like, try to write poetry. And short stories. But I wouldn’t call myself a writer. Not yet. I need to live first.”

“Well, I was doing my master’s in creative writing.” My hands sweat. She keeps looking down at the book. “I’m actually writing his biography. Maybe I can help you with your thesis?” Is she blushing?

“Are you sure,” she says, “you don’t want the book? I can get it at the library. I only buy books because they’re a justifiable expense—you know, acceptable retail therapy, like classical music CDs. Other girls buy shoes, I buy books. It’s how I get away with burning up my parents’ credit card.” Is she nervous? “I don’t even get to read all of them. They’re more like the best interior decoration. And I love knowing they’re there. Like infinite possibilities, you know? That’s why bookstores have become so popular these days. Guilt-free consumerism.” She smiles that crooked smile again.

“I know what you mean. I’m
exactly
the same.” What a dorkbag I am. “Hey, um . . .”

“Sadie. Name’s Sadie.”

“Sadie. Cool. Why’re you doing your thesis on him?”

“Oh God. Long story. My parents. My mom actually. He’s her favorite. Pretty weird, huh? Most moms like Danielle Steele. Or at best, Jane Austen. So I grew up on his books for kids, you know, the
Kaputol
series, about the tomboy Dulcé and her gang? Then graduated to his mysteries. I had a crush on Antonio Astig. For like
so
long
it’s embarrassing. I wanted to be a detective just like him. I loved his pearl-handled Midnight Special, the groovy fitted barongs and bell-bottoms, and the way he’d say, ‘Oh, pare, akala mo astig ka? Astig ako!’ What a line, like Dirty Harry! You think you’re tough? My name
is
tough! Hehe. I reread those works recently; I can’t believe I missed all those double entendres. The metanarrative. My parents encouraged me to read Pinoy writing. They were nationalistic. Blame the seventies.”

“My, um, folks were kids of more conservative times. Unfortunately.”

“Do you still have family here, or are you just visiting from the Big Apple?” She does jazz hands when she says “Big Apple.”

I shake my head again. “No. No family here. Just visiting.”

“Why’s it called ‘The Big Apple’ anyway? Is it really the city that never sleeps? Hey, do you smoke? Cigarettes, I mean. Ha. Want to go outside for a bit? The rain’s nice anyway.”

“Aren’t you here for the launch?”

“I did my rounds,” she says. “I came for my poetry teacher. No, it’s not like that. Haha! Next you’ll be calling me Lolita.”

“Lo-lee-ta,” I say. “Light of my life, fire of my loins.”

“Huh? Is that, like, from the book? ’Cause creative writing’s my major at Ateneo. Slew my dad, let me tell you. But you know how it is: I like reading, so maybe writing’ll be fun, too. Path of least resistance. Hey, I didn’t get your name.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m Miguel. Miguel Astig. No, just kidding.” She laughs a little. A lot less than I hoped. We go to the cashier and she pays for the book. Outside, we stand under the carport. Rain splatters from its corners in a constant stream. The way the light meets the dark in a neat rectangle around us makes me feel like we’re in an Edward Hopper painting. Sadie hands me the book. She puts a Marlboro in my mouth and lights it with a Zippo with a pinup girl on it. I enjoy smoking but I’ve never properly inhaled. That’s probably why I never got hooked, despite my addictive personality. I just like how smoking lets you do something without really doing anything. I don’t tell her this. I say: “You know, um, Sadie, John Cheever, he talked about details like smoking. I mean, in an interview he recounted how during a friend’s wake, the young widow
‘smoked cigarettes like they were heavy.’ I’ve never been able to get that out of my head.”