Dogeaters (2 page)

I never worry about my father. He has connections and believes in paying bribes. In his later years he is often broke, but when he really wants or needs it, he finds the money. There will always be a way out for him. I am still not sure what sort of passport he waves in the air, if he owns one or two. Maybe Spanish, maybe British, maybe Filipino, maybe anything. It is the sort of business he keeps to himself. He believes in dual citizenships, dual passports, as many allegiances to as many countries as possible at any one given time. My father is a cautious man, and refers to himself as a “guest” in his own country. My mother, who carries American papers because of her father, feels more viscerally connected to the Philippines than he ever could. She used to argue with him. “I don’t understand, Freddie. You were born here. Both your parents and most of your brothers were born here. I was born here, so were our children. You are definitely a Filipino! A mestizo, yes—but definitely a Filipino.”

My father smiles a complacent smile. It usually means the discussion is over. He shrugs. “Two generations, three generations, it really doesn’t matter. What matters is I feel like a visitor. After all, my great-grandfather came from Sevilla,” he reminds my mother. “And your great-grandmother came from Cebu!” she snaps back. There is a brief silence before my father repeats, “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what you say—it’s how I feel.” My mother throws up her hands and curses magnificently. His stubborn evasiveness is something my mother will never understand about my noncommittal father; it never fails to infuriate her.

My father and uncles are smug, mysterious men together, especially at the dinner table. “Let’s be on the safe side,” my father might say to Pucha’s father, Uncle Agustin. “We’re not fools, and we’re not cowards. But we are typical Gonzagas who want to stay alive at all costs. Nothing to be ashamed of.” My father could be discussing anything—real estate or politics—it’s all the same to him. Uncle Agustin puffs on a Cuban cigar and says nothing for a moment, assessing in his small mind what his younger brother has just said. He is even more noncommittal than my father. “Well,” Uncle Agustin finally says, clearing his throat. “Well, Freddie. Perhaps.”

My father brings up one of his favorite topics, the eldest and most successful Gonzaga brother, my Uncle Cristobal who lives in Spain. “Uncle Cristobal flies a
Falangista
flag above his front door to show his allegiance to Franco during the Spanish Civil War. He flies the flag not because he really is a fascist, but because he is a wily opportunist; like my father and Uncle Agustin, he is a practical Gonzaga, a man who always knows which side is winning. After the war, Uncle Cristobal is rewarded with a prosperous import-export firm based in Madrid. My father has said that if Uncle Cristobal had lived in Russia in 1917, he would have been a Marxist. “Adaptability is the simple secret of survival,” my father always maintains. It is another of his well-worn Gonzaga clichés, but also a rule he lives by.

1956. My
Lola
Narcisa Divino’s room is filled with the sweet gunpowder smell and toxic smoke of Elephant brand
katol
, a coil-shaped mosquito-repellent incense. Narcisa Divino is my mother’s mother, a small brown-skinned woman with faded gray eyes. She is from Davao, in the southern region where I have never been. While my grandfather Whitman Logan lies ill in bed at the American Hospital, my grandmother stays in the guest room next to the kitchen in the back of our house in Manila.

Besides my grandmother, who is treated with a certain deference and referred to as “eccentric,” I am the only one who doesn’t mind the incense she burns all afternoon and into the night. My brother Raul complains about the whole house stinking and makes fun of
Lola
behind her back, imitating her stoop-shouldered walk and soft, childish giggles. When his rowdy friends come over, Raul acts ashamed of her and avoids introducing her to them. She becomes invisible, some tiny woman who happens to be visiting, content to listen to her radio dramas in the back room.
Lola
Narcisa ignores the rest of the family as much as it ignores her. She acts surprised by my daily visits. There are times she seems confused about who I am, but she is always pleased to see me. Some days, she calls me by my mother’s name.

My father Freddie is polite and even solicitous in my
Lola
Narcisa’s presence. He is willing to pay all of my grandfather’s mounting hospital bills, and makes sure
Lola
Narcisa’s basic needs are met. Once a month, the fashionable Dr. Ernesto Katigbak is sent for to examine her weak lungs; my father pays for Dr. Katigbak’s expensive house calls without complaining. He even calls her “Mama,” but she, my brown-skinned, gray-eyed grandmother, is not asked to sit at our dinner table. When guests inquire after her, my Rita Hayworth mother simply says
Lola
Narcisa prefers eating alone in her room. Actually, my
lola
prefers eating her meals with the servants in the kitchen. She prefers to eat what the servants cook for themselves, after everyone else in the house has been served their food. While they eat
kamayan
with their hands, she and the servants go over the intricate plots of their favorite radio serial,
Love Letters
, which they listen to after dinner in my grandmother’s cozy room. I know. When my cousin Pucha isn’t visiting or spending the night, I’ve joined my
Lola
Narcisa and her friends many times.

On the wall above her bed hangs a large crucifix, with the tormented face of Christ rendered in bloody, loving detail. Russet ringlets of horsehair hang from Christ’s bent head, crowned with a miniature wreath of thorns. Next to the crucifix hangs a framed painting on velvet of the Madonna and Child, which my
lola
brought with her from Davao. The Madonna is depicted as a native woman wearing the traditional
patadyong
; the infant Jesus has the brown skin of my
Lola
Narcisa and straight black hair. Below the velvet painting, my
lola
has arranged votive candles in a neat row on a shelf meant for books. Her bed is covered with a white crocheted bedspread, which gives off a faint odor of mothballs. The bedspread and what seem like hundreds of doilies scattered around the room were all made by
Lola
Narcisa. A black steamer trunk containing my grandparents’ clothes stands at the foot of the huge bed, where my tiny
lola
sleeps alone and waits.

She is eating, always eating, like an agitated, captive animal. She holds a bowl of rice with
dilis
, anchovy-size dried salted fish, on her lap. She likes to eat with her hands, and is comfortable enough around me to do so. She gestures toward the ivory-colored, U-shaped Philco radio on the table by her bed. “Turn it on for me,
hija
—my hands are greasy,” she says. The radio was once my brother Raul’s, but he now owns a sleek black transistor model my father brought from Hong Kong. Next to her radio, my
lola
has placed a chipped, crudely painted clay statue of San Martin de Porres.

“What’s on,
Lola
?” I ask, although I know the answer. She smiles at me, a hint of mischief in her twinkling eyes, which sweep over my skinny body. I am almost as tall as she is, and this amuses her greatly. “
Love Letters! Love Letters
is coming on, in exactly three and a half minutes,”
Lola
Narcisa replies. “Sit down, Rio—get comfortable and don’t ask too many questions. The others will be coming as soon as their chores are done.” This is one of her lucid nights; she recognizes me as her granddaughter and affectionately orders me around. I turn the knob on the radio to get clearer reception. She takes a handful of rice and fish and pops it expertly into her mouth. Then she chews with a worried look on her face, temporarily forgetting I am there. I wonder if she is thinking about my grandfather. Just as abruptly, she focuses on me again. “Rio, does your mother know you’re here?” She asks. I nod. “Did you finish your homework?” I hesitate, then nod my head again.
Lola
Narcisa looks sternly at me. “I don’t believe you, Rio.” She pauses and studies my disappointed face before sighing and patting my hand. “All right,
hija
—you can stay. But if your mother comes to get you, I won’t stop her. You understand? It’s very late, and you have school tomorrow. Tomorrow is Monday, isn’t it? Uh-hmm! I don’t want your mother making
sumpung
and blaming me for your bad habits!” She wheezes and clears her throat, putting the now empty bowl next to San Martin de Porres. “Uh-hmm.
Sige
,
hija
—I’m going to wash my hands. Then when I come back, you can sit down near me, right here on the bed…”

Love Letters
has been on the air for years, the most popular radio serial in Manila. Even the President boasts of being an avid fan. Many of the episodes have been adapted into successful movies by Mabuhay Studios. Top movie stars still perform as guests on the show, including the biggest and most beloved—Nestor Noralez and Barbara Villanueva. Nestor and Barbara are engaged to marry in real life but keep postponing the wedding. Nestor sadly admits in numerous interviews that for him, “Hard work and Lady Success come first.” Barbara is just as understanding and loyal to Nestor as the characters she portrays.

My grandmother’s crazy for
Love Letters
because the plots are so sad and complicated. Every week, there’s a new story, which always involves a love letter. An episode comes on every night of the week, each story beginning on a Sunday and ending on a Saturday. Everyone weeps at the inevitable, tragic conclusion on the seventh night.

According to my father,
Love Letters
appeals to the lowest common denominator. My Uncle Agustin’s version of the lowest common denominator is the “
bakya
crowd.” It’s the same reason the Gonzagas refuse to listen to Tagalog songs, or go to Tagalog movies. I don’t care about any of that. As far as
Love Letters
goes, I’m hooked—and though I’d definitely die if cousin Pucha ever found out, I cry unabashedly in the company of
Lola
Narcisa and all the servants.

Without fail, someone dies on
Love Letters.
There’s always a lesson to be learned, and it’s always a painful one. Just like our Tagalog movies, the serial is heavy with pure love, blood debts, luscious revenge, the wisdom of mothers, and the enduring sorrow of Our Blessed Virgin Barbara Villanueva. It’s a delicious tradition, the way we weep without shame. If Pucha could see me, I’d never hear the end of it. She has no use for Barbara Villanueva, Patsy Pimentel, or Nestor Noralez, whom she calls “The King Of Corny.” She has no use for anyone who isn’t Kim Novak, or Rock Hudson.

LOVE LETTER #99

Dalisay (Barbara Villanueva) is a beautiful young servant who’s been deflowered by the handsome Mario (Cesar Carmelo), the son of wealthy landowner Don Pedro de Leon (Nestor Noralez) and his wife, the haughty mestiza Doña Hilda (Patsy Pimentel).

Dalisay writes Mario a love letter as soon as she discovers she is pregnant. Mario is away at a military school in Baguio. To make matters worse, Dalisay must function in her role as servant in Don Pedro’s hacienda as if nothing has happened, especially under the suspicious scrutiny of the arrogant and possessive Doña Hilda, who calls her only son “a gift from God.” Dalisay, of course, has no one to turn to or confide in.

The letter is intercepted by the snoopy headmaster Pating (Nestor Noralez) at Mario’s military school. Pating doesn’t tell Mario about the letter, but instead sends it back to Mario’s horrified parents. Don Pedro and Doña Hilda have their hearts set on their son marrying Elvira (Patsy Pimentel), the daughter of the town mayor. Elvira is actually in love with a soldier of humble origins, but she is willing to marry Mario to please her parents.

The beautiful young servant is cruelly thrown out of the house on a stormy night, and there is no place she can run to but her widower father’s hut on the outskirts of town. Dalisay’s father, Mang Berto (Nestor Noralez), is a poor tenant farmer who works Don Pedro’s land. Mang Berto vows to take care of his innocent daughter, and accepts responsibility for the care of her unborn child. Everyone in the small town is scandalized, and treats the miserable Dalisay with scorn.

Mario wants to come home for Christmas and profess his love for the poor servant girl at the risk of being disowned by his powerful father. He still has no idea about Dalisay’s condition. Doña Hilda is worried about the possible outcome of her beloved son’s impending visit, and decides the only practical solution is to get rid of Dalisay by staging an accident. The unsuspecting young girl awaits the birth of her child, meekly resigned to the fact that Mario refuses to see her.

Meanwhile….

Barbara Villanueva’s melodious voice sings an ominous invocation against witches: “
Asin
,
suca / get-teng, luya / bawang, lasona
”…“Salt, vinegar / scissors, ginger / garlic, onion”…An invocation against death, to protect her unborn child.

It is raining outside, a torrential rain, a sign that the typhoon season is about to begin. I can smell the rain, a thickness in the air. The furious downpour clatters against the tiles on our roof, beating a mist up from the ground. I pray the streets will flood and there will be no school tomorrow. It is a godsend, this sudden storm, this lightning and thunder and static on the radio. My
yaya
Lorenza is terrified and cowers in the kitchen every time the thunder crackles and explodes. She is tearfully cleaning grains of rice, picking out the tiny pebbles and white worms before the rice can be cooked by Pacita. “
Dios ko
,
dios ko
,
dios ko
,” she mutters, biting her lip and making signs of the cross. She will be the last to join us in my grandmother’s room, where we are all concentrating hard on the story inside the radio. My parents and brother seem distant and harmless, although they are only a few rooms away. My mother has forgotten all about me and assumes Lorenza has put me to bed. I am curled up under the crocheted bedspread on my
lola
’s bed.
Lola
Narcisa rocks in her chair. Aida, Pacita, Fely, and the chauffeur Macario sit or stand in various corners of the room, straining to listen.