Ilustrado Read online

  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.”

  “That’s really good,” she says. She tries to mimic smoking a heavy cigarette, bringing it to her mouth ever so slowly, her hand shaking ever so slightly.

  “Did you know the name Sadie—”

  “Yeah. A Beatles song. Please don’t sing. Besides, I’m glad they broke up. If not, we wouldn’t have those uber-personal songs from John.”

  “No, I was going to say that Salvador—”

  “I know. Sadie’s a character in his books. In The Europa Quartet. My mom’s a big fan. She read the series during her last trimester. She dug how headstrong and defiant the Sadie character was. I’m pretty sure that’s where I got my name. From a wanton woman. Because I came out of my mom’s womb screaming like a buckshot dog. But my dad says it’s from the Beatles. At least I’m not named after some saint. Oh, fuck. Sorry. It’s just, you know, I’m an atheist.”

  “Thank God,” I joke, laughing. “Actually, I quite like ‘Miguel.’ I was named for the beer, not the archangel. You know that saying, ‘There is no god and Mary is his mother’?”

  Sadie smiles, shakes her head.

  “I think that was,” I say, “um, I think Santayana. Right?”

  “The guitarist?” Sadie hums “Oye Como Va.”

  “No, um. Never mind. God’s dead, or did he never exist? I bet you’re a vegan, too, and you buy fair trade coffee beans. Ever hear that saying, ‘Compromise is when nobody is happy’?”

  “Nope.”

  “Actually, Crispin had a girlfriend who was named Sadie. Sadie Baxter, the American photographer. Her work’s awesome, actually.” I’m getting repetitive. “Actually, you should check the Internet for her. ‘Sadie Baxter.’ His love for her was so strong it doomed their relationship. Kind of beautiful, actually.”

  She nods and purses her lips. Is she interested? She’s a heck of a lot cuter than Madison. Smaller, like you could pick her up and manfully have your way with her. Plus she’s obviously more literary. But man, what’s with me always liking the girls I’m sure I can’t get?

  “Oh fuck,” Sadie suddenly says, as if someone poked her from behind. “Do you know what’s the time? I have to be home for dinner at seven o’clock.”

  “It’s ten to seven. Is this a ploy?”

  “Oh yeah, man, you’re absolutely on to me.” She drops her cigarette and stubs it out with her flip-flop: trendy red Havaianas, with th
e Philippine flag on them. My eyes linger on her foot. Her toenails are carefully painted in bubble-gum pink. Her foot is slender. Rabbitlike. Not at all like Madison’s. I’m lost for words.

  Sadie pops a mint into her mouth. “Curiously strong. Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. It’s my last one, and my parents . . . you know. They don’t smoke. Well, officially my dad doesn’t. Who smokes these days, anyway?”

  “Not me,” I say, stubbing my cig on the pavement.

  “Yeah, me neither. Hey, nice meeting you. I’ve got to skedaddle.” She unfolds an umbrella with a detail of the Sistine Chapel printed on its interior. She runs out of the light and disappears. The clapping of her flip-flops recedes. I pick up her crushed cigarette butt and look at the end where her lips were. It’s stained with ChapStick. I smell it. Cherry.

  Yeah, I know. I fucking sucked. “Sexy Sadie,” I sing quietly, trying to sound like John, “oooh, what have you done?” I watch the rain for a minute.

  A car pulls up quick and sudden. What the fuck? My heart begins to race. It’s a black Lexus. Should I run? It has super-dark tint. Should I shout for help? The window rolls down. Vintage hip-hop flies out. At the wheel is smiling Sadie, her face lit gently by the instrument panel.

  “Hey, nigga,” she says. “I forgot something.”

  I try to hide my relief. I smile cockily. “Did you now?”

  “Yeah, son. You have my book.”

  I look down. I’m holding The Enlightened. I hand it through the window. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “Nice ploy.”

  “You’re totally on to me.”

  Sadie is pretty in the soft light, a sheen on her face, still wet from that awkward moment between when one closes the umbrella and jumps into the car. I can smell the leather interiors mixed with mint breath spray and Sadie’s vanilla perfume.

  “Hey, Miguel. Since you don’t have any family here, and since you look so lost there, do you want to come to dinner? Come on. Our cook makes a chicken adobo that will change your life.”

  6

  Lena, Narcisito, our parents, and I returned to Manila from Bacolod to find a vision of the week after Armageddon. Our house was one of the few left standing on our street. Many of our neighbors had been killed. Every family was diminished by at least one. In all, an estimated one hundred thousand civilians died in the liberation of the city.

  Parting this sea of sadness one morning, in rode Tito Jason, honking, victoriously, the horn of a battered jeep. He was alive! So very alive. He had changed since that New Year’s Eve when he disappeared suddenly. His shiny sidearm, his skin glowing like new leather, his voice loud and happy, were defiance itself among all the death. Many a night I would sit with him after dinner as he relished his Camels on the veranda, in retreat from the family noise inside to which he was no longer accustomed. He told me stories of life as a guerrilla. My favorite was how during the liberation of the city he had served as a guide to the Second Battalion of the U.S. 148th Infantry Regiment, and they happened upon the buildings of the Balintawak Brewing Company. My uncle laughed until he was almost crying when he recounted how he and the others had swum and danced in the knee-high beer, filling their canteens and helmets with the ice-cold stuff that flowed freely from vats the retreating Japs had sabotaged. If he was in a good mood, Tito Jason would show me his bullet-wound scars shaped like war medals. When I asked the right questions, he shared with me his ideas for what makes a man good and a good man better. It was from him that I first learned about communist ideals. I was nearly ten and fancied myself close to manhood. I had never heard anything like what he had to say.

  He later returned to the jungle to fight again with the Huk army, this time against a different enemy than the Japanese—the bourgeoisie that the departing Americans had left in power. And despite his second sudden departure, I did not feel abandoned. Tito Jason was my hero. My young imagination certainly turned him into far more than he ever was, but perhaps such things do not matter. When news came that he was shot by government forces in an ambush in Tarlac, my grief at his martyr’s death enshrined him as my onyx idol. I’ve always wondered if my father knew about the attack beforehand.

  —from Autoplagiarist (page 1088), by Crispin Salvador

  *

  Cousin Bobby was cleared of all wrongdoing in the rape case, but after several brushes with the law he now finds himself in court again. This time for importing pirated adult DVDs.

  Judge: “It’s frustrating. Two years later and here we are, together again in this courtroom?!”

  Erning, seated behind his cousin, jumps to his feet: “Objection, your honor! Mr. Judge, is not my cousin’s fault you have not been promoted!”

  *

  Sadie goes to her room to freshen up and I use the guest bathroom downstairs.

  The Gonzaleses are a typical upper-class family, the type my grandparents would probably approve of. Grapes and Granma had never liked Madison, perhaps because her dad was a foreigner and certainly because her mother was the type of Filipina who aspires to marrying one.

  The Gonzales residence, in the ritzy Dasmariñas Village, adjoining Forbes, is surrounded by high walls landscaped into hanging gardens and a grotto enthroning the Virgin and Christ child. The guest bathroom is in rose marble, with tiny shell-shaped soaps, matching candles, and a whimsically painted sign that says, “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.” The bathroom reeks of antiseptic, baby oil, and lavender potpourri.

  I sit uncomfortably on the couch in the living room. It’s all so familiar. My grandmother loved this Filipinized Pueblo-Spanish style—crayon walls and old-wood ceiling beams, capiz light fixtures, Chinois furniture, Buddhist antiques, assorted santo heads in ivory. The carved faces scrutinize me painfully.

  I’m so nervous I don’t know what to do with myself. Meeting a girl I like and meeting her parents in the same day? I feel like I’m next after Caruso at karaoke. Today’s paper is on the coffee table. On the society page, Dingdong Changco, Jr., poses with Albon Alcantara, Arturo and Cettina Lupas, Vita Nova, and Tim Yap, at the launch party of the Make Your Own Havaianas week at Rockwell Mall. Dingdong looks greasier than ever. If I posed with him I’d have to rush home to exfoliate.

  Sadie comes down the stairs, all fresh and clean. I think she’s even put on makeup. “Hey pare,” she says, with that crooked smile. “Told you we’d be early. Filipino time. Why don’t you come up to my room? I want to show you something.”

  Her room smells innocent, like a girl before fashion magazines turn her into a woman. In one corner sits a Fender Stratocaster. “Let me find this poem I really want to read you,” she says. “Have a seat anywhere.” A brass bed is buried almost completely under stuffed animals. I stay standing. A pantheon of Steely Dan, the Spiders from Mars, and a sweat-drenched Neil Diamond stares at me from the wall. Sadie bends down to search a desk drawer, exposing her red thong panties and the tight crack of her plumber’s butt. Atop the clutter on her desk is a Hello Kitty diary, a sketchbook, and a plastic pistol case open to reveal blackened rags and a disassembled Glock.

  “Hey, cool,” I say, looking at the pistol. “You know, Chekhov said that if a gun appears in a story, by the conclusion it has to have gone off.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where the fuck is my notebook?” Sadie says. She looks all over, throwing around dirty clothes. I browse the bookshelves along a wall, ordered from Abad and Aeschylus to Zafra and Zola. Piled at her bedside are her current reads: Hobbes, Mill, Calvin and Hobbes, John C. Evans, Betty and Veronica Double Digests, A History of the Ilustrado Propaganda Movement 1880–1896. “School readings and readings for sanity,” Sadie explains.

  “Which are you reading right now?”

  “That one. Death of the Sunbird. The American writer Evans.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “The lives of some snowboard instructors in Col orado.”

  “Is that interesting?”

  “Good writing makes a
nything interesting. Besides, I love contemporary American lit. Call me colonial, but I’m all about it.”

  On a small table, beside a vase of mums, rises a monolith of Crispin Salvador books. “Yeah,” Sadie says, eyeing the pile. “It’s like Close Encounters of the Verbose Kind.”

  “Speaking of aliens, are you sure I can be in your room?”

  “Chill out. When I turned twenty-one they eased off on the rules. They’re enlightened. Sometimes I think they were like swingers in the seventies. Eew, that was a gross image. Anyway, they said that they’d rather have me be open at home than go off somewhere with something to hide. Whatever. Besides, nothing’s gonna happen.”

  When she turns to look for her poetry diary, I check if my fly is zipped. Whatever thrill I had from being so unexpectedly close, from soon being on the receiving end of one of her poems, all that has suddenly evaporated. Nothing’s going to happen? I wipe the inside corners of my eyes to check for eye boogers. I guess now’s not the time to kiss her.

  “Hey,” I say, studying a poster. “I love Steely Dan.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “I like that guitar part in ‘Bad Sneakers.’”

  “Which guitar part?”

  “You know, uh, the part with, um, the guitars.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” Shit. How stupid did I sound? I should’ve said something about loving Donald Fagen’s clever lyrics. Damn spirit of the stairs.

  “Hey!” Sadie says, “speaking of Salvador . . .” She sits at her desk to riffle through the mess on it. “I just remembered, my mom was a student of his aunt, at the Assumption. I bet dear old Mummy knows something about that love child you were telling me about in the car. You know how Manila is, everyone knows everyone . . . but where the fuck is my poetry diary?”

  “Is it the Hello Kitty one in front of you?”

  “That’s my dream diary.”

  “How about the one with Fabio on it?”