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  “You act as if I should be happy with that.” He pauses a moment, for effect. He softens his voice, because he wants to. He knows he shouldn’t. “The problem is one doesn’t realize what love looks like until you see others who have it, and you realize that you don’t. You see lovers—in the street, at a cafe, in photographs for heaven’s sake—and you think: that is what it should look like. Ours looks nothing like that. Sometimes it does, then you go away again. You return to your Spanish aristocrat.” Pipo spits out the last word. “Then I don’t know what I see. That’s all.” But that isn’t all. Yet he holds his tongue.

  He stands and looks at her among the big square pillows Europeans love but he could never understand. She sits up, draws her legs against her chest, and rests her chin on her knees, like an origami bird being folded. Sadie stares back. Challenging. Then she studies her hands, turning them over, inspecting them as if they were new. As if this wasn’t the end.

  Pipo hesitates, in this moment which he realizes will last forever in his mind. Even now he loves how she is a woman who likes to be looked at, even photographed, without drama, not hamming it up, ever, merely displaying, honestly. He has always loved that honesty, even if it meant she refused to decide between him and the Extremaduran count. Then Pipo’s hesitation passes and he turns away. The door doesn’t make a sound as he leaves.

  He knows it isn’t over.

  The End.

  —from Vida, Book III of The Europa Quartet, by Crispin Salvador

  *

  At dinner, Dr. and Mrs. Effy and Raqel Gonzales are welcoming. Joined by their son, Toofy, several years younger than Sadie, we sit in their sprawling dining/living room. Raqel catches me admiring a finely painted screen across one wall. “Late Edo period,” she explains. “The dealer told me it depicts popular Hokkaido myths.” She systematically turns the lazy Susan so that I partake first of every dish as the family watches me fumble with the serving cutlery.

  I get this nauseating feeling of déjà vu. But when I look at their faces, I see only strangers. Effy, a graying bear, straight from work in an office barong with a Mont Blanc clipped inside the placket, smelling of cigarettes and Paco Rabanne. Raqel, well preserved by regular sessions at the Polo Club gym, is in stylish Anne Taylor–style linen slacks and tailored cotton blouse. Sadie’s brother, Toofy (his name meaning “Effy Jr.” or “Effy too” or even “Effy two”—I didn’t catch the finer points of Sadie’s explanation), is slight and possesses the habit of playing with his lower lip. He didn’t shake my hand and seems to shrink from the dinner table.

  Sadie sits beside me. I feel her foot rub up against mine under the table. I stare at the linen napkin folded into a swan beside my plate. She keeps rubbing her naked foot against my ankle. Finally, she kicks me hard. I look up and she’s staring at me, irritatedly. She leans over to whisper. “Don’t forget to ask my mom about Dulcinea.”

  “No need to whisper! Don’t be shy,” Raqel says from across the table. “Feel at home. We’re so glad you could join us! Really, so glad. Isn’t that nice, Daddy?” Her husband is oblivious, busy rolling up his sleeves.

  An old man in pajama pants, terry cloth house slippers, and a too-big yellow T-shirt that says “Don’t worry, be happy” shuffles out of the kitchen and circles slowly around the dining table. He’s grumbling quietly to himself. Nobody seems to notice. He’s holding a spoon.

  Raqel continues: “So, Miguel, you’re from New York? But you grew up here? Ateneo or La Salle? . . . Ah, good, good.”

  “Well, I went to La Salle,” says Effy.

  Raqel: “That’s not your fault, dear. But, Miguel, you know, Toofy here is going to Southridge, getting a good Opus Dei education. Did you learn Latin at Ateneo? When did they stop teaching it? Well, then, Toofy will have to recite some original Thucydides for us later, won’t you, Toofs?”

  Toofy (reaching for the rice, mumbles): “Thucydides is Greek.”

  Effy: “This rain is really something, no? That’ll stop those Muslim zealots.”

  Raqel: “I know! I was stuck in traffic nearly two hours, coming home from my Friends of the CCP lunch in Manila. I thought it was another roadblock. There’s so many these days. I was relieved it was just a flood. That stupid Bonifacio almost stalled the car passing through it. I was worried you’d have to send your driver with the four-by-four.”

  Sadie: “Global warming. Maybe all our cars should get those engine snorkels like the four-by-four.”

  Effy: “That’s ridiculous. I don’t believe in global warming.”

  Sadie: “Because you work for Petron.”

  The old man shouts out: “Listen! It’s happening. We must be vigilant.” He wields his spoon as if it were a knife.

  Effy: “Pop, the war’s over. The Japanese surrendered.”

  Raqel (turning to me): “Don’t mind my father-in-law. He’s un-well. The maids feed him in the kitchen, but he likes to walk around between spoonfuls.”

  Toofy (leaning in like a spy in a crowded souk): “We call him Spooky Lolo.”

  Raqel: “Miguel, excuse me for asking, I’m curious. Who are your parents?”

  I tell her.

  Raqel: “Ah, I knew your mother from Assumption. She was a few years older. We knew of your dad. They should never have gotten on that plane.”

  Effy (glaring at his wife): “It was a real tragedy. The country would have been so different.”

  Me: “Thank you, sir.”

  Raqel: “I still think it was the CIA. Bobby Pimplicio was too much of a nationalist senator for their liking.”

  Effy: “The people called him ‘Bob Hope.’ I still remember his campaign jingle. ‘Don’t cast your dreams down the drain, cast a vote for Mr. Hope.’”

  Sadie: “In history class we learned that anyone could have sabotaged the engine. The administration, the big corporations, even the commies.”

  Me: “All the explanations never really interested me. All that mattered was that my parents were gone and I never knew them.”

  Toofy: “Bet it was a spiteful God.”

  Me (smiling at Toofy): “I tend to agree.”

  Effy: “How about your lolo, how’s he doing? I used to see him at Manila Golf. Haven’t seen him in a while, though.”

  Sadie: “I thought you said you didn’t have family here?”

  Me: “My lolo is well, sir. Still the firebrand.”

  Raqel: “How many children are you?”

  Me: “We’re six, ma’am. My parents kept having kids until they had one they actually liked.”

  Raqel: “What number are you in the family?”

  Me: “Number five.”

  Raqel: “That’s funny! Isn’t that funny, Effy?”

  Effy: “We’re lucky we had a girl, then a boy. We could stop trying.”

  Sadie: “You know, Miguel is a writer. A damn fine writer, too.”

  Toofy: “Have you even read his work?”

  Raqel: “Oh! What do you write, Miguel? My daughter is a big reader. She inherited her worldly inquisitiveness from me. I used to read her the—”

  Effy: “Tell me, how do you earn a living, Miguel? I guess your rich grandparents support your hobby.”

  Raqel: “Effy!”

  Sadie: “Dad!”

  (Toofy drops his cutlery on his plate.)

  Spooky Lolo: “I taught you better than that. I remember when you killed your puppy because I got angry with you.”

  Effy: “No, Miguel, I’m just curious. Really. If that’s what my daughter wants, that’s what she gets, right? I just want to know how much to save for her inheritan—”

  Sadie: “Daddy, please.”

  Raqel: “You must excuse my husband. His art is making money.”

  Me: “It’s a hard art to master, ma’am. Actually, I make enough to support myself. Freelancing and what have you.”

  Effy: “You can’t do that here in the Philippines, no? There’s not enough money in it. Maybe in the States yes, but here . . .”

  Raqel: “I wanted to be a writer, t
oo, you know. Then I got pregnant and there were so many things keeping me busy. A household to run, my work at the Chosen Children Foundation, Christmas bazaars, Pilates, et cetera.”

  Sadie: “My mom used to hang with poets and Maoist revolutionaries.”

  Effy: “You know, speaking of revolutionaries, someone at the office told me he knows the rumors are true. About Sexysexygate. Vita Nova has a videotape that will implicate the president.”

  Raqel: “That’s an example of in flagrante derelicto.”

  Sadie: “Eew!”

  Toofy: “It’s delicto.”

  Effy: “The poor bastard, betrayed by his new mistress.”

  Sadie: “I heard Reverend Martin’s backing him anyway. Despite all that ‘morality’ stuff.”

  Raqel: “Why can’t Filipino men stay monogamous, I don’t get it. Like dogs on the street.”

  Effy: “Because of their wives, that’s why.”

  Raqel (ignoring her husband): “That’s the problem with a charismatic order like Reverend Martin’s. They’re unsanctioned by the Church, but they get away with almost murder . . .”

  Sadie: “They deliver the votes.”

  Effy: “I think they give people hope.”

  Raqel: “Well, how many millions belong to the El Ohim? Ten? He’s a kingmaker. But no matter how populist you are, what kind of Christians are you if the Pope doesn’t recognize you?”

  Spooky Lolo: “I’m telling you, Satan came as Jesus.”

  Effy (sounding long-suffering): “Papa. Don’t blaspheme.” Sadie: “Mom, Miguel is doing the biography of Crispin Salvador. He’s one of your favorites, no?”

  Raqel: “Well, just one of my favorite local ones. He’s no Paulo Coelho. The Alchemist changed my life. But it’s great that you’re writing Salvador’s biography. How wonderful for you. Finally, someone’s doing it.”

  Sadie: “Mom, did you know that Crispin—”

  Effy: “My wife was once in love with him, Miguel. She had his photograph in her locker at school.”

  Raqel: “It was a wonderful photo. Salvador looked like a silent-era film star. But Dr. Gonzales exaggerates. I was taking photography at the time, and my teacher at Assumption, the famous Miss Florentina, she asked us to replicate the lighting for our portraiture project.”

  Effy: “But after that, you went and read all his books.”

  Raqel: “Oh, you’re so funny. Sadie, isn’t your dad funny when he’s jealous? Well, it’ll be a good biography. Salvador was quite the character. I saw him once on campus, giving a talk. Very magnetic. You know, there was always something melancholy about him that—”

  Me: “I’ll be interviewing Miss Florentina.”

  Raqel: “Oh! Do give her my regards. If she remembers me. It was so long ago. She was a real dynamo. With her poetry and her travels and her men. She had a joie de vivre that made us students feel old. And she was as clever as a mousetrap. She always played the fool in order to control us.”

  Toofy: “I read on a blog that Salvador, like, offed himself.”

  Sadie: “Mom, listen. Did you know—”

  Raqel: “Did he? Oh my. How sad.”

  Toofy: “That’s why you should read the papers, Ma.”

  Effy: “Wasn’t Salvador a homo?”

  Sadie: “Dad!”

  Toofy (throwing his fork onto the plate again): “May I be excused?”

  Raqel: “No, you may not. We’re not halfway through dinner.”

  Sadie: “Mom, let him go. He’s got so much homework.”

  Effy (looking at his son): “What’s the problem? Are there homosexuals here? Of course not.”

  Raqel: “Toof, stay put. Pray tonight for a coup if you don’t want to go to school.”

  Spooky Lolo: “In the end, somebody else will be telling the truth, and it will all be different.”

  Raqel (mildly raising her voice): “Papa, please! It’s time for your next spoonful. Why don’t you go into the kitchen?”

  Effy: “Miguel, where did you receive your education?”

  Sadie: “Miguel went to an Ivy League school for his master’s. For creative writing. Bet you didn’t know Ivy League schools had creative writing programs.”

  Effy: “I went to Harvard for my master’s, then to Princeton for my PhD. MBA, then doctorate in economics. And you?”

  Raqel: “My husband used to spend his tuition on trips to New York, staying at the Plaza and blowing his parents’ money on blond hotsipatootsies.”

  Me: “Columbia, sir.”

  Effy: “That’s not true. I did that one semester. My last. I’d earned a scholarship for students from the Third World, so my tuition money was a bonus.”

  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.”