Authors: Miguel Syjuco
Raqel: “Lord, how could you go out with white women? White people don’t use water to wipe their bottoms after they use the toilet.”
Toofy: “That’s called ‘dry-wiping.’”
Raqel: “Toof! Please, we’re eating!”
Effy: “Sorry, Miguel, did you say Columbia? A Little Ivy then.” Me: “Actually, sir, I think it was one of the Founding Four.” Effy: “No, it’s Harvard, Yale, University of Pennsylvania, and Princeton.”
Me: “I don’t think so, sir. I think it was Columbia and not Prince ton. I guess it depends on whom you ask.”
Effy: “I’m sure it’s Princeton.”
Raqel: “Who wants mangoes? We had some flown in from the farm in Cebu.”
Me: “Thank you, Mrs. Gonzales. I’d love some.”
Raqel: “Please, call me Tita Raqy.”
Me: “Thank you, Tita Raqy.”
(Mrs. Gonzales rings a delicate silver bell on the lazy Susan and watches the kitchen door for the maid. When nobody comes she rings it again.)
Effy: “That bell doesn’t work. It’s not loud enough. I’ll use the remote.”
Raqel: “That thing is so crass. This bell is much more elegant.”
(Dr. Gonzales reaches for the remote control on the buffet table behind him. He presses the button and an electronic bell sounds in
the kitchen—
ding
,
dong
,
dang
,
dong
—like Big Ben on the hour. A second later, a maid comes out with a tray.)
Effy: “If the system ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Raqel (speaking in Cebuano): “Inday, please clear the table and bring out some sliced mangoes. One for each . . .”
Sadie (rubbing her foot against mine, then whispering to me): “Ask my mom about Dulcinea.”
Me: “I keep trying.”
Raqel: “. . . Cut them in halves first, then peel the skin of the pit and stick a knife into the pit. Repeat my instructions.”
(The maid repeats the instructions in Cebuano. She returns to the kitchen.)
Raqel: “She’s new. We’re still house-training her.”
Spooky Lolo: “You were so beautiful when you were young. So much idealism it was inspiring.”
(Dr. Gonzales rings the electronic bell and the maid reappears.)
Effy (in Tagalog): “I think my father is ready for his next scoop of food.”
(The maid guides Spooky Lolo by the arm into the kitchen.)
Toofy (conspiratorially again): “You know, that maid, she washed her feet in the toilet when she first arrived from the province.”
Raqel: “Toofy, be Christian, child! You know, Miguel, how these maids are. So hard to find good ones, and tougher to train. You have to tell them thrice how to do everything. Once so that they can forget it, twice so they can get it wrong, three times so they are reminded how to do it correctly. My friend Jessica Rodriguez had this story about her new maid . . . you know the Rodriguezes? They live in Forbes Park also, near the back of the Polo Club. You can smell the stables from their pool.”
(Spooky Lolo comes out of the kitchen again, chewing, and resumes shuffling around the dining table.)
Effy: “Doesn’t your family own a compound there, Miguel?”
Me: “My grandparents and my aunts, sir. But it’s not a compound, just a few properties.”
Effy: “Imagine, a compound in Forbes Park! I should have gone into zippers and politics.”
Raqel: “As I was saying . . . Jessica was hosting a dinner last week and they were serving lechon. You know, roast suckling pig.”
Sadie: “Mom, Miguel grew up in the Philippines.”
Raqel: “Ah, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting. You don’t have a Filipino accent anymore! Good for you. Anyway, so Jessica Rodriguez, she told her new maid to serve the pig on the large silver platter, but with an apple in the mouth. Of course, who wants to see the fangs and tongue of the pig, no? The maid goes away and the guests eagerly await the entrance of the lechon. When she returns, sure enough, the pig is on the silver platter, and the apple is right there,
plop!
, in the mouth of the maid. Oh my lord, everyone couldn’t stop laughing, no? The poor maid didn’t know what was going on. Even when she set down the lechon and started to carve it, the apple was right there in her yap.”
Sadie: “That’s such an old urban myth. It always happens to someone’s Tita So-and-So. It’s like seeing the White Lady of Balete Drive on a stormy night.”
Toofy: “A night like this one.”
Raqel: “No, it’s really true. It happened to Jessica. She told me when I saw her in the parlor at the Polo Club. Why would she lie?”
(The maid comes with the plates of mangoes and we’re all quiet as she serves each of us. Spooky Lolo stops his circling and watches the maid complete her task.)
Me (turning to Toofy): “So, Toofy, what are you going to study in college?”
Toofy: “Dunno.”
Raqel: “Inday, serve from the right, and remove from the left. Please repeat to me.”
Inday: “Serve from right to left.”
Raqel: “No. Serve from left, remove plates from right.”
Me: “Do you know where you’re going to college?”
Toofy: “Not sure. Far away.”
Inday: “Yes, ma’am. Serve from left, remove plates from right.”
Raqel: “Good. Now you can go.”
Spooky Lolo: “Serve from the right with the right hand, remove plates from the left with the left hand.”
Effy: “You know, Miguel, my cousin is in Congress. Maybe your grandfather is his friend? Manoleto Gonzales, second district of Ilocos Norte.”
Me: “I’m sorry, sir, doesn’t ring a bell.”
Effy: “Grew up in Bacolod, but his wife is Ilocana. Changco is her maiden name, from the tycoon family there. Dingdong’s second cousin, I think.”
Sadie: “Mom, Miguel was just in Bacolod, researching Salvador’s life for his book.”
Raqel: “Ah, yes, he was from there. But what a modern-day ilustrado, no? From the cane fields of Bacolod all the way to Europe and America! How romantic!”
Sadie: “And Miguel found out that—”
Effy: “My cousin was from one of those rich Bacolod families. Like the Salvadors. All incestuous, everyone related, to keep the money and fair skin in the family. Bad teeth, lazy. He had a third nipple or something. Spoiled as a prince. What kind of kingdom do you inherit there, anyway? Did you like Bacolod, Miguel?”
Sadie: “So, Mom, Miguel met Salvador’s sister. Didn’t you know her?”
Me: “Bacolod was fine, sir. Quite peaceful, actually.”
Effy (leaning onto the table): “See? This cousin, he and his brothers enjoyed guns, and they’d get so bored they used to bring their bodyguards and go with the military and police to hunt. He used to tell me what it was like, waking up while it was still dark, going into the mists before the heat of day arrived. They’d crack Boy Bastos jokes and chew Wrigley’s spearmint gum open-mouthed. Just like the movies.”
Toofy: “Caricatures of men.”
Spooky Lolo: “And Boy Bastos’s daughter says, ‘The future swims in shit’!” (Spooky Lolo snickers to himself.)
Effy: “My cousin was a bona fide weirdo. He boasted that he loved the smell of gun oil and armpit odor. They were hunting communist guerrillas. Shooting down NPAs like animals.”
Raqel: “Oh, Effy, you’re so dramatic.”
Sadie: “Mom. Wasn’t Lena Salvador your choirmaster when you were in college?”
Toofy: “Which ones were the animals?”
Raqel: “Sadie. Darling, stop making chismis like that. Only boors talk about other people, because they have nothing else interesting to say. Why, what happened to her?”
(Toofy takes out his phone from his pocket and starts text-messaging.)
Raqel: “Toofy, please. Don’t text at the table. Miguel, please excuse my son, ha? He has cellulitis.”
Effy: “I’m telling you, it’s true, since he was thirteen. All dressed up with bandoliers and sidearm. I’ve seen pictures of him as a youngster, like Rambo or something.”
Raqel: “As if you don’t like guns, Effy. You even have your children shooting with you.”
Sadie: “Mom. Lena said that Salvador had a daughter. She was named Dulcinea. An artist, apparently.”
(Toofy starts texting again, this time under the table. He’s obvious, but nobody notices but me.)
Spooky Lolo (raising his voice to be heard): “When you go shopping, please buy me a Ped-Egg. You keep forgetting.”
Raqel: “Pa, if you don’t keep quiet we’ll have the maids bring you upstairs.”
Effy: “I don’t know why you’re still against guns. The bad guys have them. Self-defense is important and guns teach you the value of peace. Shooting is like wielding thunder. You think twice before losing your temper. Anyway, my cousin the oddball . . . now he’s in government. You know, when he gets new shoes, he makes his bodyguard wear them for a week, so that the leather gets broken in and the shoes don’t hurt. It’s a good idea, actually. I wonder if Imelda used that trick. Six thousand pairs are a lot of shoes to break in.”
Spooky Lolo (mumbling almost inaudibly): “. . . don’t know why you didn’t enjoy martial law . . . the streets were peaceful again . . . they stole, but at least they gave back.”
Raqel: “Effy, that’s disgusting. Would you want Ricardo wearing your shoes? You don’t even let him park the Porsche for you. Besides, I wouldn’t want you bringing your feet into the bed after wearing shoes he’s worn.”
Toofy: “You’ll get Chinese Foot Flu.”
Sadie: “So, Mom. Mom. Mom, Miguel’s now looking for Dulcinea. She probably has the missing manuscript everyone was talking about.”
Effy: “I don’t know why it should matter, Raqy, whether my feet are clean or not. It’s not as if we share the same bed. You don’t even care when I don’t come home.”
Raqel: “More mangoes, Miguel? Let me ring the bell for you.”
(Mrs. Gonzales rings her little bell.)
Sadie: “Mom, are you listening to me? Mom?”
Toofy: “May I be excused? Are we done?”
(Mrs. Gonzales rings her little bell.)
Spooky Lolo: “There’s no need for any of this. We’re family.” Effy: “You pretend not to notice, pretending to be already sleeping . . .”
(Mrs. Gonzales rings her little bell.)
Effy: “. . . your rosary wrapped around your fist. How many years has it been since we made—”
Raqel (shouting for the maid): “Inday! You bitch, where are you?”
Sadie: “Do you want me to get her for you, Mom?”
Toofy: “Are we goddamned finished?”
(Raqel stands suddenly and goes upstairs. Effy turns the lazy Susan to get more food. Sadie looks to be on the verge of tears. Toofy’s cell phone vibrates, signaling a new text message; he holds it blatantly above the table, his thumbs clicking the keys in rapid response. A maid comes out of the kitchen and leads Spooky Lolo by the elbow for his next spoonful.)
*
The year after my Tito Marcelo died was when the fighting began over the fortune. Grapes had sold the zipper company, YKK Philippines, which he’d inherited from his father, both because liquidity was needed for his imminent senatorial campaign and because the business had just settled a costly counterfeiting case with the real U.S. company. (YKK Philippines was sold to Dingdong Changco III, for a record billion pesos, and its name was later changed to TKK Philippines. It is still the largest manufacturer of zippers in eastern Southeast Asia.)
The sale was not as straightforward as Grapes would have liked. He had put the corporation in the names of each of his children—ostensibly to rescue them from inheritance taxes, but more likely to
hide his assets from the scrutiny of political opponents. This allowed my aunts to contest the clause that let Grapes administer the company on their behalf. What followed was internecine squabbling, secret meetings to shift allegiance, and round-robin backstabbing. Each sibling sued Grapes. Tito Marcelo’s wife sued my aunts. One aunt, convinced the stress would soon kill my grandfather, launched a preemptive case against Granma. Even we grandchildren estimated how much everyone would be receiving (though because my parents were dead, my father’s name was absent from the articles of incorporation, and my five siblings and I were exempt from the chaos).
In the end, having funded the appointment of a Supreme Court justice years earlier, Grapes won every suit. The fortune remained his. His children stopped talking to him and Granma, despite living across the street in houses he’d given them when they started their own families. When Grapes was away campaigning, we grand-cousins were encouraged to keep Granma company. “She’ll probably give us money,” we said to each other, though the thought of her sitting alone was what sent us knocking at her bedroom door. She rarely took out her wallet. Usually she told us to choose one thing from the suitcase brimming with fake Rolexes and Omegas she’d brought back from her latest Hong Kong shopping spree. I’d stand in front of the open suitcase, observing the hundreds of second hands ticking out of sync, thinking about how distant I’d become from my grandparents. At first I attributed it to my growing up. But after about a dozen times sitting with Granma, I started avoiding her again. When she knocked on my bedroom door, I didn’t answer. I was discomfited by her stories about how rotten her children were.
It even got to the point where, when we saw our titos and titas in public, we weren’t sure whether we should greet them. Whose side were we supposed to take in all this? I sometimes wonder if that was what Grapes intended.
One afternoon I saw my cousin Esmie on the elliptical trainer in the gym at the Polo Club. We’d been close once. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “We just got back from Bangkok with Granma. She treated me and my mom. Grapes doesn’t know!”
“I didn’t even know Granma was away,” I said.
“A hotel maid caught her stealing pens and soaps from her trolley. It was crazy embarrassing. Security was called, and Granma was escorted down to talk to the manager in the lobby. When we came home, Granma came back with like fourteen suitcases, filled with shitty bargain junk. She paid like four thousand dollars in over-weight baggage fees. And guess who I saw recently? Tita Baby, last week. She just arrived from L.A. We celebrated her fiftieth at our house. I know, she and my mom are friends now. They both made up with Grapes and he gave them each a small ‘pre-inheritance.’ Look what I got!”
Esmie held up her wrist to show off a sparkling tennis bracelet.