Dogeaters (16 page)

Clarita’s mother was ashamed of her daughter’s images and pretended they didn’t exist. When they talked in Clarita’s studio, Delia Avila’s gaze rested on her daughter’s face or on the wall above her. Clarita’s father was condescending and indifferent. Daisy’s mother the professor was the only one in the family with nerve enough to say, “She may be a genius, but that girl is deeply disturbed.”

Daisy loved Clarita’s pictures. She saw herself lost in the jagged blue landscapes, painlessly smothered in a leering, yellow demon’s embrace. It was that same unsettling feeling, that same shock of recognition she experienced the day she walked into Clarita’s studio and saw Santos Tirador.

With his coarse hair and feral face, he seemed an elegant animal trapped on the lumpy sofa, surrounded by mismatched furniture and Clarita’s lurid canvases. Clarita’s mother, sitting next to him on the sofa wearing the expensive dress Clarita had bought for her, smiled a big smile when Daisy entered the room. Daisy bent to kiss her aunt. Rising from the sofa, the young man held out his hand. Daisy smiled warmly at him. “I’ve come to see Clarita’s new paintings,” she tells her aunt. The young man introduces himself. “I am Santos, Horacio’s son.” Daisy looks surprised. She turns to her cousin. “You never told me Horacio had a family.” “He didn’t, really,” Clarita retorts, annoyed.

S
ANTOS IS GOOD, ONE
of those rare good men with an unpredictable, exuberant sense of humor …I can tell the poor bastard’s smitten, but who wouldn’t be—with that sweet face of yours? Take care to keep up with him, or stay at least one step ahead. My mother has taught me men always adore women they love
in the beginning
…Santos is very smart, and because he’s a few years older than you he can teach you things. He hasn’t had our privileges, and whatever education Horacio provided for him was largely improvised. The old man was a miser, and not very generous when it came to his son, who in fact he barely acknowledged…And you’ve never been an intellectual, though your sophistication will get you through…I must warn you—Santos now believes he’s on some sort of mission, which can be very dangerous these days. Do you understand? Your note disturbed me at first, but then I thought…well, this is good for Daisy. You must remember you are also your father’s daughter, so Santos is risking quite a lot by taking you with him. Still, he’s already endured so much in his life, he can probably handle anything. Reckless girl. You may be envious of my art, but now I’m envious of your love affair. (
Joking-joking lang
.) I’ll miss you. Forgive the way this letter is written—I hope you can read my scrawl! And forgive my bad manners. My mother accuses me of being rude, and I am perfectly aware I haven’t been very nice to anyone lately…You must know how much Mama and I love you. We always think of you, Uncle Domingo, Tita Luisa, and Aurora. Don’t worry about them—they’ll eventually understand. And if they don’t…Here you go again, Daisy—disrupting our lives! Cora Camacho is going to enjoy every minute of this. You know that, don’t you? Be prepared for the worst. I really will miss you. Enough of my sentimental garbage, okay? You asked for my opinion—you got it. I must tell you, after that last fiasco of yours, your taste in men is improving. Of course! No doubt about it! Run away with him. Just don’t be shocked by how much you’re going to suffer. After all, you’re still a married woman in everyone’s eyes…

The most insignificant circumstances become omens which were almost always unfortunate. The song of the tic-tic, the appearance of a snake in the house, the shriek of a rat or a little lizard immediately caused a feeling of melancholy and gloom
….

—Jean Mallat, The Philippines (1846)

The sleep had lasted for centuries, but one day the thunderbolt struck, and in striking, infused life
…

—Jose Rizal

I
N THE MIDDLE OF
the Pacific Ocean, a large white plantation house with imposing white pillars stands on a tiny island round as a pancake. The waves are still, the water glistens in the blazing sunlight. The island seems deserted, the house pristine and perfect in the silence. She thinks of starched white shirts, sharply pleated white sharkskin trousers, the gleaming blade of a knife.

She walks to the edge where beach meets water. She is dressed in her lavender
terno,
the one with stiff butterfly sleeves intricately embroidered with sequined flowers. She dives into the water in her beaded gown. Her thick black hair is swept up and rigid even in the water the lacquered helmet stays pinned and fixed on her head

It seems effortless at first. But as she swims the distance to her white island house keeps changing: first near then far the camera lens zooms in and out

The house becomes a speck on the horizon. She is panting, struggling to maintain her strength and energy. Her arms plow through the water water thick as syrup water resists her she aches with exhaustion she hears herself groan and gasp for air she momentarily panics someone waves to her from the balcony of the house.

Is it her daughter? A faceless woman in a wedding gown clutches a torn veil in one hand. She waves the veil like a banner above her head her movements become increasingly frantic are there sharks in the water? She swallows syrup her eyes sting with salt she heaves her body through syrup she doesn’t care she’s going to give up any second now and drown

There. She’s on the white verandah of the white house. Someone is playing a piano the music drifts from an open window the chords of a haunting mambo the opening chords played over and over again slow and deliberate it’s a funeral march where notes keep changing one mambo blends into another a mambo so familiar and elusive

She is in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City. She wears a scarlet beaded silk
terno
an opulent black tulle bustle accentuates her plump buttocks as she struts confidently toward the elevators

She is alarmed. She realizes she forgot to put on stockings and shoes no one else seems to notice

Her entourage of crones dressed in pastel blue walk behind her at a respectful distance. They drag her luggage hundreds of Vuitton suitcases in all shapes and sizes black steamer trunks pale pink hatboxes assorted plastic shopping bags one empty birdcage three pearl-handled English umbrellas and several sets of brand-new American golf clubs the women chatter among themselves their bursts of laughter annoy her she can’t understand a thing they’re saying suspects they’re talking about her

Which of course they are. She turns suddenly to reprimand them but they’ve vanished the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria is deserted except for chairs lawn chairs stools armchairs stacked on top of one another wrought-iron garden chairs wooden chairs chairs upholstered in medieval tapestry

Cristina Ford comes out of the first elevator. She wears a nun’s habit and veil. “Ciao, bella—” Cristina greets her warmly pulls a cigarette from the deep fold of her pocket and lights it she inhales greedily exhales the smoke with a sigh of contentment “look, darling—I managed to keep it,” she says, pulling off her veil shaking put her leonine mane of peroxided hair she takes another puff on her cigarette before disappearing into a second elevator

It’s a perfectly choreographed moment. The third elevator’s door slides open without hesitation she steps in she holds up her long
terno
skirt to keep her precious beads from dragging on the floor she looks down at her bare feet the red polish on her toenails is chipped the skin between her toes is cracked and blistered streaked with dirt she is horrified she drops the skirt quickly she can smell her own blood how could it be it’s been years is she menstruating?

The elevator operator turns to smile at her she jumps she hadn’t noticed he was there oh good it’s George Hamilton immaculate tuxedo starched shirt blue-black eyeliner a perpetual tan on his cartoon face it’s oh George his white teeth gleam like a knife like a knife she remembers oh he is lit from within when he smiles he’s an archangel “WANNA DANCE?” he yawns at her his voice a warped record the elevator comes to a sudden halt doors slide open to reveal a dark suite before she can answer with her usual

Before she can answer with her usual “I’m a woman always ready to dance” she finds herself alone in the hotel room there is a man asleep in a coffin his lips painted a vivid red no it’s a large bed she is alone and she is exhausted the bed is freshly made up she is surrounded by enormous bouquets and vases of flowers the bed is freshly made up the crisp white sheets look inviting
she is obviously expected
a box of chocolate seashells lies on her pillow the blankets are turned back in such a way a pile of chairs the temperature so cool the lilting strains of a melancholy mambo piped in through invisible speakers nothing too loud or obnoxious a mere suggestion of music for her sleeping pleasure a pile of garden chairs the temperature so cool all she wants to do is crawl

The curtains are drawn the bed is cool she is hot and terribly horny she removes her scarlet gown which falls in a red heap on the carpet she is pleasantly surprised the mirror reflects a taut adolescent body she munches her chocolates stark naked there is no one in her suite she makes sure of that first she knows now she can do anything she feels incredibly powerful exhausted by jet lag all she can do is fall luxuriating in the iciness of her sheets she’s so hot she’s burning up this must be purgatory

Pope John XXIII is in her room hiding behind the drawn drapes oh good John her favorite pope her favorite fantasy his plump face friendly and comforting she writhes slowly on her bed of ice she can’t believe her luck there is no one there to stop her she can do anything make the pope disappear she opens her legs Pope John puts a finger to his lips shhhhh shhhh his fleshy lips turn up in a guilty smile he’s a jolly fat man her Father Confessor her father the bureaucrat her father the old jolly Jesuit Father Manuel

It’s a jolly Italian no it’s her Ilocano husband leering at her with those painted lips she’s enraged by his intrusion “The lipstick doesn’t suit you” she snarls at him “
Buwisit
!
Buwisit
!” “WANNA DANCE?” he yawns at her a warped record left too long in the sun he’s a prune he’s a raisin he’s a pile of garden furniture in the middle of her bedroom something’s wrong

She sits up. A lizard emerges from the shadows sluggish clumsy movements a comic Godzilla she is relieved at first it’s only a cartoon the lizard’s scales are opalescent plastic sequined eyes the color of her scarlet
terno
it’s a halloween parade in excruciating slow motion

She sits up in terror. Where’s the salt? Pass the salt and pepper please pass the salt and do you by any chance have any Tabasco? the American consul once told her salt on slugs makes them fizz up and disappear a harmless cartoon

This is not a slug. This is a papier-mâché iguana. This is some sort of prank some sort of halloween coup d’état is she awake? do iguanas have teeth?
Iguanas taste like chicken
the American consul informs her the American consul is a diplomat who eats anything he’s been to Mexico stationed in Uruguay or was it Bolivia? “I am a girl who’s ready to dance” she informs him in that coquettish way of hers the American consul whispers in her ear
Iguana stews are heavenly
really sometimes peasant cooking is so inventive
I’m a celestial traveler
she whispers back

She’s perched on her throne of bananas she reigns from a mountain of coconuts she wears a nest of lizards in her hair WHERE IS THE POPE? WHERE IS GEORGE HAMILTON? IS THIS ANOTHER ONE OF MY HUSBAND’S PRACTICAL JOKES? She is aware of the weight of her pendulous breasts it’s starting to snow in New York City in the name of the Father the Son and the Holy Ghost WHERE IS THAT BITCH CRISTINA FORD?

T
HE POPULAR GENERAL NICASIO V.
Ledesma has announced his latest strategy for dealing with the growing popular support for insurgent rebels in the Mindanao region.

Speaking at the Manila Press Club yesterday, General Ledesma described his anti-rebel campaign as “a personal mission” which will involve organizing and talking with local people in the remote villages, listening to their grievances against the military, and undermining their support for the leftist guerrillas by distributing food, clothing, and medicine in the areas most devastated by the war.

“It is an incredible challenge,” General Ledesma emphasized, “but I am confident that we can win this war if we can win the people’s hearts and minds.” He joked with reporters and posed for the cameras, dressed in camouflage fatigues and combat boots, smiling alongside his Special Assistant Lt. Col. Carreon. Carreon will accompany General Ledesma on his tour of the Mindanao provinces.

When asked about the seven people killed and nine people wounded in front of Quiapo Church last month, the General claimed the charges of arbitrary killing made by Senator Domingo Avila were grossly exaggerated. “Our men are the finest soldiers in the land,” he said, in reference to the elite secret police, the Special Squadron Urban Warfare Unit. “They are trained to be cautious, and to be just. Let’s face it—since the revival of the plainclothes government force, law and order has finally been restored in our nation’s capital.”

General Ledesma is staunchly supported by the President and First Lady, who honored the war hero with a banquet held last night at Malacañang Palace. Among numerous celebrities in attendance were actress Lolita Luna, debonair jet-setter George Hamilton, and pianist Van Cliburn, who danced all night with the First Lady.

Looking healthier than ever despite rumors of failing health, the President toasted a beaming General Ledesma. “Thanks be to God, we can all sleep better knowing Nick Ledesma is in charge of halting the growth of cancerous Communism in our country,” the President said.

Absent from the gala proceedings was Senator Domingo Avila, an opponent of the use of Special Squadron units and an outspoken critic of the tactics employed by General Ledesma.