Ilustrado (38 page)

“Let’s shake our tail feathers. Come on!”

“How about we get hammered and do scads of blow?”

“I’m a girl. We just want to have fun.”

“And getting hammered and doing scads of blow isn’t fun?”

In truth, it’s been a long time since I felt comfortable dancing. Yeah, I know, it’s the best way to get chicks. One semester even, at Columbia, I paid for three months of hip-hop dance lessons. After stumbling through the Grapevine and the Robocop in the first class, I never went back. I used to think my not going was money wasted. I later realized my not going was money very well spent.

“It’s just that my feet really hurt.”

“Oh, you’re being gay.”

“No. I’m not. Gay people love dancing.”

“Give me one good reason not to dance with me,” she puts her hands on her hips, inadvertently tightening her shirt against her chest. Her nipples are impertinent through the fabric. Or maybe impetuous. Likely both.

“It’s just—I’ve got—Aw, forget it.” Either I just dance or I use one of my stock excuses. Thing is, the only way I can find rhythm is by closing my eyes. Then I tend to bump into people.

“Don’t be shy. Miguel, it’s me. It feels like we’ve known each other forever, right?”

“Sure.” Maybe I’ll just dance. Aw, fuck it. I’ll make up an excuse. Here I go. “It’s just I’ve got these orthopedic insoles.”

“I’m happy for your arches.”

“No. They’re actually really spleening me. I think the tropical heat melted them out of shape and they’re hurting my feet.”

“Take them off and chuck ’em.”

“I need them for my posture.”

“But they hurt you. And we wanna dance.”

“They’re expensive. And good for me.”

“Take them off. I’ll put them in my purse.”

“I don’t want you to do that.”

“Really, it’s okay.”

“That’s sort of too intimate. I hardly know you.”

“It’ll be our definitive bonding experience.”

“I’m not that type of guy. I never let a girl touch my orthopedic insoles on the first date. Besides, I think they might smell like pee.”

“You’re funny. Okay, I get it. I have to admire your inventiveness. You’re actually really cute. Let’s go get plastered and high as kites. But you owe me a dance next time.” We move away from the
rail and look for somewhere to sit. I let her lead and I watch her bare back as she goes, and I smirk at the guys who are checking her out.

“Hey, M.,” Sadie says, turning, “since you’re so keen on chatting . . . I heard Rico talking to you. Are you sure you’re leaving before Christmas?”

“Did you hear my reply?”

“I don’t eavesdrop.”

“No? Just kidding. Yeah, my plan was for a week, before I get sucked in. Why so curious? You want me to stay?”

“On the contrary. I’m like a praying mantis. I prefer that my mates are conveniently disposed of.”

“Ooh. Are you going to bite my head off? I should’ve known you were . . .”

“It’s just that . . .” Her face is suddenly serious. She puts her hand on my hip and pulls me closer. “My dad, you know?” She circles her arms around my waist. “He treats me like a . . . aw, fuck.” She’s scented with baby powder. “You know, my dad didn’t like you. What you represent. After I dropped you off, I went to my parents’ room, to ask my mom if she knew anything about Crispin’s love child. Before I could, my dad like hijacked the conversation and started making fun of you. Don’t look that way. It wasn’t personal. It was directed at me. At my life choices. And I, I—I don’t know. I just, um, I was just wondering . . . I haven’t seen New York, and . . .”

“And?”

“And aw fucking fuck. Not him.” Sadie points behind me. Albon Alcantara is bounding exuberantly around the room, his camera flashing. He’s coming straight for us. “I’m not supposed to be out, remember?” Sadie pulls at my hand. Albon pauses to take a photo by the stairs. The couple really hams for the camera, their smiles carefully careless, looking sick to death of being in the society pages. “Quick,” Sadie says, “It’s dark there behind the pillar.” She takes my hand and tugs.

“Is this another ploy?” I say.

In the shadows I turn to her, fishing into my pocket for my baggie of coke. Suddenly her lips are against mine, feeling and biting. She’s leaning her body against me, swaying on her tiptoes, reaching
my face with hers. Her arms wrap around my neck, her fingernails scratch against my nape. Oh, jeez. Our tongues touch. Oh, Lord. I hope she’s not just emboldened by coke. She pulls away and she’s suddenly that coy girl to whom I was first attracted.

But she’s crying. It’s definitely time for another line.

She kisses me again. Whispers in my ear: “I hope you don’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“I want you to take me with you.”

I don’t know what to say. So I say: “Um.” Then I say: “Shouldn’t you wait to graduate first?”

Sadie pushes me. She’s blushing and scowling.

Me: “No, I mean, it’s just . . . a college degree is an important thing.”

Sadie: “I have to piss.”

Me: “You want me to go with you? We can do anoth—”

Sadie: “No thanks, dad. That’s an awful lot of Paco Rabanne you’ve got on. You stink like my father.” She picks up her purse and hurries to the ladies’ room.

I try to follow, but Albon homes in. A few steps away from me, he flings himself backward, as if swept up by an original idea, to take my picture. Then he hugs me, hefting me off my feet and patting my back. He’s always had the demeanor of an Eastern European–born L.A. art gallery owner.

“Ow!” he says, pulling away, holding his forearm. “My new ink.” He has a tattoo across his wrist. It says
V.I.P
. and is made to look like a stamp bouncers give you upon entering a nightclub. It’s fresh and peeling a bit. “My gods, though, it’s so good to see you,” Albon says. “When’d you get back? So long without calling me? Are you staying for good? Why aren’t you sure? How long has it been? That long? Are you still decadent? What are you doing these days? . . . Oh! What kind of book is it? I’ll throw you a book launch. Why don’t you stay and, you know, help us. The scene is growing, people are really learning how to party. Manila’s becoming très sophisticated. We need your energy. I mean, my gods, our poor country and its brain drain. In fact, I’m working with the Department of Tourism, to rebrand Filipinos as the Brazilians of Asia. But instead of beaches and samba, we’re beaches and disco music. Listen, call me.
Let’s play badminton at the Polo Club and we’ll talk more. I have to cover this event for my blog. Oh, speaking of. There’s a party tomorrow at my club. It’s a shindig we call ‘Clubbers of the World, Unite!’ Gods, I hope this rain will stop. Prada is sponsoring the fashion show, then open bar from ten until midnight. Stolichnaya. All proceeds go to the Philippine Literacy Project, because our kids need to read good. I’ll put you on the guest list.” Albon hands me his card. “Hey,” he says, looking at me earnestly, “that book you’re writing, I hope you give it a happy ending. We need more of those.” He winks then waddles away, camera lighting up the eager smiles of partiers.

*

The Communist Party of the Philippines had a very strict agenda, which Salvador quickly learned was vastly different from that of the foot soldiers actually waging the “protracted people’s war.” The time in the hills was, as he called it, “my schooling in the best and the worst of humanity.”

From Ka Arsenio, Salvador learned the skills he needed to survive: how to care for and fire his locally made Kalashnikov, which plants were edible, how to navigate by the stars, where to place the butterfly knife between the ribs to puncture an enemy’s lung, how to leap through an open window using the Flying Panther technique. In return, Ka Arsenio learned from Salvador how to read and write.

One moonless evening in December, their Sparrow Unit was walking single file between two dried-out rice paddies, sneaking home from a meeting with government soldiers. The rebels had just purchased crates of ammunition from their foes—Philippine Army officers who needed money for the Christmas season. Feeling satisfied and safe after the amiable transaction—and tipsy from the Red Horse Beer the soldiers drank with them—the comrades walked quietly but slowly, intent on enjoying the night air. They carried the boxes on their shoulders while the one woman among them, Ka Helen, balanced hers on her head. When Salvador tried to do the same, his fell and clattered into the paddy.

Shots rang out from across the open space, bursts of bright light
bloomed along the far embankment of the paddy. Salvador felt somebody jump on him and hold him down. The bullets thudded into the berm between them and their attackers. Ka Arsenio hissed in his ear: “Did you tip them off?”

The shooting stopped. Ka Arsenio looked Salvador in the eye, unsure of what to do. Salvador could see Ka Helen lying a few feet away, but couldn’t tell if she was dead. As he recounted in his memoir: “I’d never heard a night so frightened into silence.”

Ka Arsenio kissed Salvador gently on the cheek. Then he held out a finger, then a second one, then a third. They stood up suddenly, took aim, and fired at the shadows moving toward them. Bullets flashed by their heads, “fireflies on a mission, but sounding like killer bees.” Salvador sighted carefully at an approaching figure. He saw the soldier was “holding a rifle in one hand and crossing himself repeatedly with the other.” Salvador couldn’t pull the trigger. The soldier got on one knee and took aim. Salvador fired. The soldier fell backward and lay still. “I hoped he would move,” Salvador wrote in
Autoplagiarist
, “but he didn’t.”

That was the first person he ever killed.

Salvador and Ka Arsenio fired until they ran out of ammunition.

More figures moved across the paddy, rapidly closing the distance.

—from the biography in progress,
Crispin Salvador:
Eight Lives Lived
, by Miguel Syjuco

*

In Sadie’s car she acts like nothing happened. “Fuck, I’m so glad we bailed. Same shit, different week,” she says. “You really think this party will be cool?”

“They’re good friends of mine. Their band’s really good. The Cool Kids of Death. Have you heard of them? Punk. Their set starts at four-thirty.”

“I’m worried about the weather.”

“They’ve got a hit. You know, ‘Sabotage Love! Sabotage Love! This is my reality, I am who I want to be . . .’”

“Um, okay, thanks. Hey, I’m sorry about . . .”

“Sadie, it’s okay. Don’t be. But if you don’t mind my asking, your dad . . .”

“Yeah, really sorry, the driver forgot to put the cartridge back in after I changed the CDs this afternoon. We’ll have to stick to radio.”

“Oh.” How is it possible I can have such a great connection with someone so quickly and that we can become awkward so quickly as well? She ons the radio and navigates static while trying to find a station. The rain hasn’t let up. “This storm’s something, huh?”

“Don’t,” she says firmly. “We’re better than small talk.” Then, warmly: “So, why’s the band starting so late?”

“They’re gigging at a Christmas party for one of the call centers on Libis. That’s when the staff gets off work. They deal with customers in the States.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah. My friend, he’s the guitarist, he told me these people keep schedules like vampires. Some restaurants and bars there open after the workers’ shifts. At like four in the morning.”

“I’ve never heard of that. And I live in this city.”

“Because you don’t leave Makati,” I joke. “Hey Sadie, you want another bump?”

“I think you should cool it with that shit.”

“I’m okay. I can stop whenever I want to. Listen, you okay with catching The Cool Kids of Death?”

“Sure, it’s a different gimmick. Beats going to Where Else? or Venezia. Where the
fuck
are all the stations?” Sadie twists the knob and goes up and down the FM band.

“Are there no streetlights?” I ask. “Or is it your dark tint?”

“Usually there are. I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe another blackout?”

“Don’t tell me more jellyfish.”

“Coup d’Etat had power.”

“Probably the mall’s generator. The Lupases wouldn’t want to lose a centavo of revenue.”

The lights are on in the hotels. The Peninsula’s fountain is lit and gushing. The InterContinental glows obliviously. Shangri-la has a giant wreath of green and red lights on its facade. Other buildings, however, stand like black monuments to the ashy sky. I open
my window a crack and hear generators rumbling defiantly. Water comes in and I shut it.

Sadie’s cell phone chirps.
Poo-tee-weet
. She looks at it. “A friend passing on a text,” she says. The phone is like the moon and her face is being bathed in it. “It says we should stay home tonight because there’s shit brewing.” Sadie puts her cell on the dashboard.

When we get to Edsa, it is lightless and empty, its wide ten lanes a deserted valley of concrete. The Lexus’s headlights slice a pallid, claustrophobic section from the thick rain. Sadie drives slowly. Occasionally, a bus roars past like a train, sending a slap of water against our car.

“Try the AM band,” I suggest. She finds Radyo Veritas. The commentator sounds like he’s had more than his fair share of coke this evening.

“. . . carefully this evening compatriots the roads are flooded in many locations around the metropolis. And returning to our top story Reverend Martin has mysteriously disappeared from his cell in Camp Crame gone without a trace. Authorities are baffled and inquiries are being conducted presently to determine his whereabouts . . .”

Sadie turns the knob. “Makes me nervous, all that bad news,” she says. “Aren’t there any music stations on AM?” We find one playing a ballad, “Dahil Sa Iyo.” The crooner’s voice makes love to the Tagalog words. “Because of you, I live. Because of you, until I die.” When the song ends, the DJ comes on, whispering seductively in English: “Dat was Julio Iglesias, uh, singing his wonderpul rendition of da beautipul, uh, ninetin-sebenty-tree classics kundiman to keep you company on dis rainiest of ebening. Next we hab—”

Sadie reaches for the radio knob and turns it off. The silence is like a bell.

*

The young man looked at the dead man at his feet, then at the red fedora perched there on the cardboard box. This image in the alley was only his, this young Miguel’s, even as he accepted the metal cuffs around his wrists with a steely resolve beyond his years. He reminds himself: This will be forever one of the many things I will be glad is mine. All this, the finality of this one
evening, the image of that one hat, the weight of that one stone, the cleaving of two lives on a dark, lonesome road.