Ilustrado Page 29

  When I reach her, she shouts over the music into my ear: “Do you want to tend the rabbits, Lenny?”

  “What do you mean?” I yell.

  “You looked so lost there. Uncertain as a mouse. Did that guy slip a baggie in your pocket?”

  “I thought someone was watching me. I didn’t know it was you. I’m fine. Just overwhelmed at being home.”

  “Me? Watching? What do you think of me, thinking of you?” She makes her voice all cute for that moldy old line.

  I play along: “What do you take me for, granted?”

  “Never. I’m glad you got my text. Didn’t think you’d make it, actually. The rains and all. My parents wouldn’t let me out.”

  “Why? All the coup talk?”

  “Nah. That’s just the usual bullshit. Right? My folks were worried about this freakazoid typhoon. I had to wait for my mom to take her sleeping pills, and my fucking dad wasn’t home anyway. Nice pants, by the way. I didn’t take you for the—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I mean, like, rock on, man!” She holds up a hand to do the sign of the horns.

  I look down at my tight leather jeans. I’d bought them after Madison and I broke up. I guess I wanted to reinvent myself. Sadie teases, but I can tell she’s totally impressed.

  “Hey, Sadie, won’t your dad . . .”

  “No, the driver drops him off under the porte cochere. Tomorrow’s my parents’ golf day—their together time. Usually they just walk to their balls together. That’s how together they are. But with this weather they’ll be sleeping in till eleven.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Can you buy me a drink?” She puts her hand on my chest. Can she feel my heart pounding? It’s been so long since I felt the thrill of newness. I think we’re such a good match. I’d never felt that with Madison. With Madison it was almost as if need brought us together and exhaustion kept us that way.

  “You know, Miguel? I feel really close to you. It’s like I’ve been waiting for you all my life. Buy me a drink, then take me away forever.” I almost believe her. Then she raises the back of her hand to her forehead and pretends she’s about to swoon. She sure has nice armpits.

  I call the bartender over. “I’d like a Swinging Balzac.”

  “What?” he says. “Single malt on rocks?”

  “No, a Swinging Balzac. One part cognac, one part calvados, half part Grand Marnier, splash of lemon. Shaken with ice and strained into a martini glass.” The bartender thinks for a second then nods.

  “What’s that?” Sadie asks.

  “Crispin’s signature concoction. I think he stole the name from someone more clever. He used to say, ‘Fancy a Swinging Balzac?’ while waggling his fist like a, you know.”

  “Like a what?”

  “What’ll you have?”

  Sadie orders a Double Dickel on the rocks. “How very writerly and pretentious of us,” she says, grinning.

  It is, too. It’s great.

  *

  Our smitten protagonist hears the bartender punch their order into the register. The sound of the bell before the cash drawer opens reminds him of that familiar scene. The old man in his study, at his desk, in a pool of light made milky by pipe tobacco, the type hammers clickety-clacketing until the rewarding ding.

  The boy observes himself in the mirror behind the bar, even as he stands beside Sadie in the strobing lights. He stares not out of vanity, but for confirmation. Yes—he thinks, looking himself in the eye—this is real. Even if it’s like we’re in the movies. Even if it’s too good to be true—finally, a girl who gets it; the lighting just right; the sound track soaring; the sensation thick in the throat that a climax is about to be enacted. He shakes his head and thinks, God, I’m high right now.

  *

  Boy Bastos grows up and has a daughter who looks just like him, whom he names Girly. He chaperones a play date, sitting with Girly and her friend from school. They play luksong tinik, the traditional game involving a pair seated on the ground to form a fence with outstretched hands, over which participants leap. It starts a few hand spans high, then another hand is added once everyone makes the jump. You may have seen that painting by Amorsolo, all bucolic and sun-drenched, often used in pamphlets and books to illustrate an idyllic youth.

  The girls hold out their hands, and Boy has no trouble jumping over. He laughs with unexpected glee. Finally, it’s his daughter’s turn. Boy’s stretched hand forms the top of the barrier. Girly makes a magnificent leap, like a pair of scissors opened wide to make a cut.

  “You touched!” Boy exclaims.

  “No, I didn’t,” Girly claims.

  “I’m sure you did,” Boy says. They begin to argue vehemently.

  “Papa, how can you be so sure?”

  Boy smells his thumb. “Hmmph!” he says. “Like fish! Told you you touched!”

  *

  Sadie: “What’s that smell?”

  Our voices echo in the men’s room cubicle.

  Me: “This is the bathroom.”

  Sadie: “It’s, um, kinda gross.”

  Me: “Let’s finish and get out.”

  Sadie is timid when she does coke, sniffing demurely as if over a fresh batch of cookies. And after I serve her a bump off my key, she takes it and the baggie and serves me in return. You can tell a lot about a girl by how she does her cocaine. Madison was like a Provençal pig rooting for truffles. Usually she did both the lines I’d cut for her and me. It became her running gag, though I hated it, especially at three in the morning when our supply was running low.

  Sadie reaches up and wipes some powder from my upper lip. I feel like I’m in a summer field, standing on the top rung of a ladder, looking over acres of sunflowers. Who needs drugs when you have love, or at least infatuation?

  “You know,” she says, “in that book I’m reading about the snowboarders, there’s this great bit that goes, ‘There is something inherently fun about doing coke in a crowded bar with your friends that has little to do with being high. It’s the feeling of getting away with something—at an age where it’s okay to buy a Playboy or see a girl in her underwear, it’s like having a hard-on underwater at a public swimming pool.’ And you know, I think I’d like to get away with something with you, Miguel, I really think I would.” Sadie gives me a kiss on the chin and I feel like I’m a spoon sparking in a microwave. “Let’s get some more booze,” she says.

  I hold open the stall door. I may not be a lot of things, but one thing I am is a gentleman. The curve where Sadie’s neck and shoulder meet looks damn delicious.

  Laughter and voices approach and suddenly the door opens and some old friends spill into the men’s room. I sniff and wipe my nose, to preserve Sadie’s honor.

  “Dude!” Gabby says. “When’d you get back?” It’s great to see him. He still has those eyes like he’s got some joyful secret he might just share with you.

  Rico: “Good to see you, dawg!”

  Chucho (shaking my hand vigorously): “What a guy what a guy what a guy!”

  Gabby: “How long you staying?”

  Me: “Just a week. Probably.”

  Chucho: “Not even long enough for a denouement! Why aren’t you staying for Christmas?”

  Me: “How you guys doing?”

  Chucho: “Same same, pare. Same same.” He’s ballooned since I last saw him. Since his wife got pregnant, I guess. “Nothing changes here.”

  Rico: “True that, mate.” His accent is South London. A few years ago he flunked out of Ateneo Law and was sent to culinary school abroad. His parents knew the Philippine ambassador to the Court of Saint James or something. “Just got back from Heathrow yesterday. Almost didn’t make it. But I knew the Christmas parties would be right proper. Got delayed six hours in Narita, waiting for the weather to clear over here. What a bother. Man, can you believe these bombings? Bloody fucking Muslims. And my parents think I’m safer at home than at winter break in Ibiza.” He pronounces it “Ibitha.”

 
; Gabby: “You know how it is. It’s been bad for so long it can’t get worse. It’s all just the media. These things get blown up.”

  We laugh at his unintentional pun.

  Sadie: “It’s not that bad.” She apparently knows everyone here, in true Manila cosmology. “Manila’s one big Rorschach test. You can tell loads about a person by what they think of it.”

  Chucho: “Sades, why you hanging with this miscreant? Just kidding. I kid, I kid! What a guy what a guy. This motherfucker used to be the Atomic Shaman! Did you know that? Should’ve seen him dance with glowsticks. But he’s moved to better locales. Look at him. Too much milk and honey and Famous Original Ray’s.” He chummily grabs around my waist. I push him away and tousle his hair.

  Gabby (his eyes sparkling): “Dude, you have?”

  Rico: “What?” (His face fills with the euphoria of realization, followed by a goofy look of hope.)

  The three guys watch me expectantly.

  Sadie looks at me. I look at Sadie. I look at the guys.

  “Sorry, fellas. All gone.”

  We file out of the bathroom together. Gabby’s got his arm around Sadie and I can tell he’s teasing her about me. Chucho is bobbing to the music and starts pumping his fist in the air.

  Rico (his arm on my shoulders): “Hey, how’s your gramps? He doing well?”

  I’ve never really liked Rico. He thinks he can be chummy with me because he worked as my grandfather’s assistant after college. He’d have done well in politics. He’s such a dickhead that when he gets aroused he gets a stiff neck. And because he’s recently discovered cocaine he thinks he’s extra cool.

  Me: “My grandpa’s okay. Still at it.”

  Rico: “You know, your lolo is one of the best men I ever met. He may be a lot of things, mate, but he’s an honest man in a dishonest line of work.”

  Me: “Sure.”

  Rico: “He gave me shit when I worked for him, but I deserved it.”

  Me: “You shouldn’t have showed up stoned so often.”

  Rico: “Dude, I needed to be. Tough fucking job. I remember the worst night was when this guy rang the gate at Forbes, looking for your grandpops. I went out and the guy’s like, ‘I voted for Governor Salvador. I earned a certificate in caregiving because of his programs and came to work in Manila.’ The bloke’s hands were like all shaking. He goes, ‘I tried my best. I have nothing left and nowhere else to go. I need a little help to take the boat home to my family.’ Then he looks me in the eye and is like, ‘If the governor doesn’t help me, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m afraid of what I’ll do.’ He looked like he really meant it. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that. He was like playing with the end of his shirt and his hands were trembling. So I went inside and told your lolo, and he’s like, ‘They all say that.’ So I’m like, ‘What should I do?’ And your lolo goes: ‘Take care of it.’ So I go out and tell the guy sorry. You should’ve seen him. His hands quit shaking and his whole body crumpled and he sat on the ground. I didn’t know what to do. So I gave him all the money I had in my wallet. I had to shut the gate, but he just sat there, staring at the fucking pittance I gave him. I wonder a lot about what happened to him.”

  Me: “You never told me about this.”

  Rico: “Aw, we weren’t hanging out anymore. You were always with your chick and your baby.”

  Me: “What a fucking hypocrite my grandfather is.”

  Rico: “You shitting me? I respected him after that. ’Cause he was right. Don’t think shit like that doesn’t affect your lolo. He just knows what has to be done.”

  Me: “I don’t know. You help wherever you can.”

  Rico: “Yeah. Try it. Anyways. You sure you can’t stay for Christmas?”

  Me: “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Rico: “Dude, just for the parties, then get the fuck out. Seriously. Every time I come back, I see it. This place is a living ghost town. Innit?”

  *

  MAGELLAN: Gimme, gimme, gimme some heathens for my Lord

  Some bullets for our muskets and a whetstone for our swords

  In ships we come, like a stroke of thunder

  To live and die, for salvation and plunder

  We name these lands for our king!

  PIGAFETTA: Gimme, gimme, gimme my parchment and my quill

  The story I have, I know is sure to thrill

  I’ll record our myths and make you legend

  Our faith in God’s empire nothing could rend

  We name these lands for our king!

  —from the 1982 disco opera All Around the World, based on the life

  of the cartographer and translator Antonio Pigafetta (libretto by

  Crispin Salvador, music by Bingbong Cadenza)

  *

  The music’s kicking. Obscure electro remixes. On the mezzanine, we lean on the railing and look down on the dance floor. Sadie points out Vita Nova boogying on the ledge by the DJ booth.

  “I have to say,” Sadie says, “she sure is hot.”

  “Yeah. But as soon as she opens her mouth . . . It’s that alley accent.”

  “I hear she’s such a slut,” Sadie says. “As in really used. I knew this guy who said that fucking her is like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.”

  “My, my, Miss Gonzales. Watch your tongue.”

  “I’m just reporting. It’s my civic duty. Besides, I hate sluts. They think they’re being empowered feminists, but they’re so subjugated they’re blind.”

  “Do you really think she’s got dirt on the president?” I admit, it’s hard to keep from staring at Vita. I’m trying not to, so that Sadie won’t notice. But the dancing artista is a bright nebula, it’s like the music is coming from her. To a colorful, arcing bass line, a man with a voice like gravity sings about melodies that getcha so: “. . . Where’d they come from? I don’t know . . .” Vita has her eyes shut and is doing this repetitive move where her face goes one way while her hips swing out in the opposite direction. Like a snake. With a killer rack and bodacious ass. The very snake who gave Eve that apple she gave to Adam. The man with the funereal voice calls out in happiness: “. . . But I’d give away the fames of a hundred Henry James . . .” Vita throws her arms above her head in ecstatic display of who she has become. She, too, has great armpits.

  Sadie asks: “Looks like you’re thinking about dancing. You wanna?”

  “I’d love to, but let’s drink first. My feet hurt.”

  “Aren’t New Yorkers used to walking?”

  “Sure we are.”

  “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 . . .”