Dogeaters (28 page)

It was essential to act immediately, without thinking. Emitting a muffled scream, Joey grabbed the scruffy fur at the back of the dog’s neck and held on for dear life, thrusting the sharp blade below the dog’s right ear. Blood spurted everywhere as the dog jerked in response. Joey kept stabbing the animal, the queasiness in the pit of his stomach rising to his throat. Once again he tasted metal on his tongue. The dog yelped and whined with each thrust of the knife, horrifying Joey. He began to weep, furious with the dog for not dying quickly. His anguished cries and the animal’s became one and the same. His arm grew numb with the effort of killing, but Joey wouldn’t stop until the shuddering dog finally lay still.

The smell of blood in the dark, airless room was unbearable. Joey stripped off his T-shirt but kept on his jeans, now stained and splattered black with gore. He wiped the sticky knife blade on his shirt, then folded and slipped the
balisong
into his back pocket. Using water from the giant oil drum Uncle kept in a corner, Joey washed up hurriedly. Shivering in his damp jeans, he bent down to lap at the water in the drum, trying to quench his terrible thirst. That done, he took a clean T-shirt from one of the overturned cartons. It was the best he could do; Uncle’s pants would never fit him. Leaving his bloody shirt and the butchered carcass of Uncle’s dog behind as souvenirs, Joey slipped out the door.

The balmy night air hit him in the face. Fresh and unexpected, the almost sweet scent of rotting food and open sewers mingled in the night breeze. Joey darted in the shadows, past makeshift squatter’s huts leaning at precarious angles over the fetid canals where oversized rats foraged and swam, ignoring him. He crossed the open field that led to the main highway. The moon was full. Joey guessed it was late, perhaps past midnight. He no longer had Rainer’s money; it had vanished with the old man. What was left was a worn hundred peso bill and Rainer’s coke, wrapped in foil next to the knife in his pocket. His best bet would be to find Boy-Boy at Studio 54. Ask to spend the night. Maybe Boy-Boy would cook for him. One good night’s sleep and hot food—then he could make plans, devise a strategy. Boy-Boy was like a brother to Joey; he could be trusted. He never asked too many questions, or passed judgment. Joey suspected Boy-Boy was also infatuated with him, and decided to take advantage of the situation.

He walked to 54 Alibangbang Street, which wasn’t too far away. On the sidewalk out front, a group of young men loitered, staring curiously at Joey as he approached. “Hey! Joey Sands! What’s happening, boss? It’s me, Dodoy—” one of them greeted him, grinning widely. He was a Chinese-Filipino with a spiky haircut and a tight T-shirt, cut off to reveal his midriff. “Hey,” Joey nodded, smiling uneasily. He could not for the life of him remember Dodoy, if he’d actually ever met him. Something about the eager young man felt instinctively wrong. Brushing past him, Joey pushed open the unmarked door and started up the narrow stairs. Music drifted down to the street below, the urgent, nasty rhythms of James Brown’s “Sex Machine.” He was stopped by the insistent voice of the unfamiliar young hustler. “Hey Joey—you got anything?” Dodoy touched Joey’s arm. “We’ll trade you downers, boss—” His voice was loud and obsequious, but his eyes were hostile, appraising Joey coolly. Cigarettes loosely dangling from their pouting lips, the others encircled Joey, hopeful and menacing. Ears pierced with gold hoops, studded with gold crosses and fake diamonds, their lean young bodies were tense with nervous, undirected energy. The boys waited for Dodoy to give them the signal to pounce on Joey, who kept smiling. “Not tonight, guys—” Joey said, “I’m all out. Maybe tomorrow—” He paused, focusing on Dodoy with an unswerving gaze. “How about a cigarette?” he asked, taking the hustlers by surprise. With obvious reluctance, Dodoy handed Joey his pack of local Marlboros. Joey swiped a couple, saluting his thanks as he bounded up the stairs toward the pulsating music. Dodoy stared sullenly after him, gathering his thoughts.
You’re safe for now
, he said to the retreating figure silently,
but I’m not gonna forget, motherfucker.
Then he shrugged, a display of false nonchalance for his friends.

Upstairs, Joey waited in merciful darkness next to the stage of the crowded nightclub. Boy-Boy and the shower dancers were going through their routine, the third and final set of the evening. “Sex Machine” segued into a slower, more agonizing, sexual funk. The audience was riveted by Boy-Boy’s performance. Lighting one of Dodoy’s Marlboros, Joey forced himself to relax.

Facing the empty street, the young hustlers resumed their idle positions, leaning against the unmarked facade of Studio 54. “
Putang Ina
,” Dodoy muttered, unable to restrain himself, “Who does that nigger think he is?” The others howled with laughter, their raucous male voices jarring the night’s heavy silence. The air smelled of rain, the impending typhoon that heralded a tropical Christmas. Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, signaling the approaching dawn.

Children who die very young are crowned with white flowers, dressed in their finest clothes and like adults, are brought to the cemetery in an open coffin; music precedes the coffin to the church, and the part of the cemetery especially consecrated to them is called, at least in Paco, the “Angelorio,” that is to say the place where the angels are buried. Instead of crying, the family makes great rejoicings, because they are considered as enjoying a privilege that no man can share with them, that of their children dying without sin.

—Jean Mallat, The Philippines (1846
)

(T
HE COLONEL WHO ARRESTED
her has a baby face. He speaks to her politely in English. They arrive in an unmarked car at the recently renovated military complex. It is after midnight. Colonel Jesus de Jesus holds her by the elbow in a deferential manner, as if he were a gallant gentleman escorting her to a formal ball. “Contemplate your sins and your crimes here at our cozy Camp Meditation,” Colonel Jesus de Jesus chuckles. He takes her on a brief tour as he leads her down the maze of corridors toward the General’s special interrogation room, what some survivors jokingly refer to as General Ledesma’s “VIP Lounge”—for very important prisoners. “Here,” the Colonel points out proudly, “our state-of-the-art computer area, where vital information is processed and transmitted to our other headquarters. And here—the men’s room on the left and the newly painted women’s restroom on the right—for our occasional guests as well as our staff,” he adds, giving Daisy another smile. In the next building are recently installed shower facilities that can accommodate hundreds. And the food isn’t bad, he assures her with a wink. He flirts with his eyes and touches her freely every chance he gets, bending over to sniff the nape of her exposed neck. “Beautiful,” Colonel Jesus de Jesus sighs. The guard opens the door. “Good evening,
hija,”
General Nicasio Ledesma greets her.)

At magandang gabi sa inyong lahat
, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight’s episode of Love Letters is called “Diwa.” Brought to you by our sponsors Eye-Mo Eyedrops, TruCola Soft Drinks, and Elephant Brand Katol Mosquito Coils, “Diwa” stars the one and only Nestor Noralez as Ponciano Agupan, with Barbara Villanueva as Ponciano’s wife Magdalena, and Bootsy Pimentel as their daughter Rosalinda…Patsy Pimentel portrays Doña Ofelia, and Glenn Magpantay appears in a cameo role as Don Gregorio. This week’s special guest star is Tito Alvarez, who plays the mysterious drifter, Real.

(In the foreground, the clatter of dishes and utensils being set on a table. In the background, the soft chirping of nocturnal insects underscored by a sweet, strange melody played by mandolins.)

MAGDALENA:  
(anxious)
Dios ko!
Where is your father?

ROSALINDA:     
Stop worrying, Mama. You worry too much, and you’ll get sick again, (pause) Why don’t you start eating?

MAGDALENA:  
I’ll wait for your father. You know he hates to eat alone. ’
Sus Maria!
Where could he be? It’s so late!

ROSALINDA:     
(concerned) Stop it, Mama. Sit down and get away from that open window. You’ll catch cold in the draft.

MAGDALENA:  
Wait! (pause) Rosalinda, what was that?

ROSALINDA:     
What? What are you talking about, Mama?

MAGDALENA:  
(stage whisper) Shhh! Be quiet, (pause) Rosalinda—did you hear that?

(The General turns up the volume. “Do you like these melodramas,
hija
? Kind of sentimental, don’t you think?” Daisy stares back at him. “Your late father and I shared a mutual respect for the remarkable culture of this country,” the General says, gazing at her fondly. He is sitting with his hands clasped on the desk, the radio on a shelf behind him. He nods to Pepe Carreon. “Would you care for a cigarette?” Pepe asks Daisy. “A glass of water or coffee? Have you had any dinner?” Daisy refuses to sit down.)

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(A burly man is introduced as Dindo. One of our President’s trusted aides, the General explains. He has some questions for you. The questions are innocuous at first. Daisy stifles an urge to laugh. “When is your birthday?” “When is your sister’s birthday?” “Does your mother attend church?” The burly man’s face glistens with sweat in the air-conditioned room. “Have you been in contact with your cousin, Clarita Avila? What about your husband, the foreigner?”
Malcolm Webb
, the General corrects the burly man. “I’m fussy about details,” the General says. The burly man apologizes. “How did you meet Santos Tirador? Did you commit adultery with any other man before or during your relationship with Santos Tirador?”)

(The sound of a door opening and closing. A chair scrapes on the floor.)

ROSALINDA:
     Papa! What happened?

MAGDALENA:
   (sobbing)
Dios ko,
Ponciano—my god, what have they done to you? Why…(gasps) There’s blood on your shirt!

ROSALINDA:
     Papa! Mama! What’s going on? (The sound of moans in the background) You look terrible, Papa. Why don’t you lie down?

PONCIANO:
       (groaning) No, no. I’m—I’m all right—(As Magdalena speaks, there are sounds of clattering dishes, faucets being turned on and off, water running into a basin.)

MAGDALENA:
(angry)
Dios ko, ’Sus Maria Josep!
Ponciano—why didn’t you listen to me? I knew something was going to happen to you—that dream I had last night, filled with dreadful omens…(tearfully) Didn’t I warn you? Sit down, my husband. Here, let me wipe your face with this damp cloth—

PONCIANO:
      (groaning with relief) Ahhh—
salamat
, Magdalena—I feel—much better. Much. Better. Already…

MAGDALENA:
Where have you been? You didn’t go to the river again, did you?

(Ominous music in the background.)

PONCIANO:
      Magdalena, please. I…I don’t want to talk about it—

ROSALINDA:
     Papa, what are you trying to hide?

MAGDALENA:
(accusatory) You did, didn’t you? You did it again—

(“One of your father’s favorite songs,” the General tells her, “was ‘White Christmas’ by Bing Crosby. He only liked the Crosby version. Not too many people knew he was a sentimental man, with sentimental taste in music and movies…‘Give me Eartha Kitt, give me Benny Goodman!’ I used to say to him. This was in the old days, when your father socialized with me more often,” the General smiles. He shakes his head slowly at the memory. “Your father was a stubborn man. He believed in moral lessons. He wanted everyone to be perfect, to consider him as an example. That stubbornness might have contributed to his downfall,
di ba
?”)

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(The announcer’s voice returns while the TruCola calypso is still playing, to remind listeners about Diet TruCola and Cherry TruCola, now readily available at supermarkets and
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stores everywhere.)

(“Are you aware of Santos Tirador’s involvement in the recent ambush on PC troops near Sagada on November second?” the burly man suddenly asks Daisy. His tone is no longer courteous. Daisy has been momentarily lulled by the voices on the radio. Surprise and dismay show on her face. “All Souls’ Day,” the General murmurs. “All Souls’ Day,” the burly man echoes. “There were very few survivors among my troops,” the General says to Daisy, “which is very upsetting to me. You understand me,
hija
?” Daisy vows to remain silent, no matter what. She imagines she is not pregnant with Santos’s child, that somehow she will steal the General’s pistol and open fire on all the men in the room. She is barely showing, and wonders if the General suspects her condition. “The poet who sheltered you—Zamora,” the General-pauses, then looks at the burly man. “Primitivo Zamora,” the President’s trusted aide hastens to tell him. The General nods. “Yes—Primitivo Zamora. How long have you known him?” When Daisy still does not speak, the General seems disappointed. “
Hija
,” the General speaks softly, addressing her as daughter in tender Spanish, “I must warn you. Even I can do nothing about my men’s excesses—” He motions to Colonel Jesus de Jesus, who hands him the Polaroid snapshots. “Here,
hija.
Look at these—so terrible, don’t you think? A terrible, terrible fate. Terrible, really.” The General sighs. He points out the young man’s mashed testicles, the close-up of his gouged-out eyes. Throughout, the General keeps sighing, making clicking sounds with his tongue against his teeth. Daisy’s tears flow hot down her cheeks; she tastes the salt in her mouth. She tries in vain to stop crying, but her tears keep streaming down. “Look—” the General shoves the last snapshot in front of her averted face. “Look—my men rearranged him totally. A Styrofoam cup where his brains should be—isn’t that ingenious?”)