Dogeaters (32 page)

“This salad is unbelievable,” Mimi Pelayo says with enthusiasm, stabbing another piece of canned asparagus with her fork.

“Where did you get the asparagus?” Sylvia Abad asks.

“It’s a malicious contradiction!” Mrs. Goldenberg interrupts. “How could they possibly send us to Arabia?”

“It’s
Saudi
Arabia, darling,” Isabel Alacran corrects her, smiling one of her icy smiles.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to be there!”

My mother changes the subject by asking Isabel Alacran about the shoes she’s wearing. The women stop eating long enough to peer under the table. My mother claims Mrs. Goldenberg is a madwoman. Functioning, but crazy all the same. She is tolerated because she is the American consul’s wife and her powerful husband intervenes on behalf of my parents.

The time my grandfather Whitman was dying, for example. He was kept alive by intravenous feeding, and the doctors prescribed for him some special astronaut food available only in North America. We had no access to this exotic miracle diet, and my mother went into hysterics. Mr. Goldenberg arranged for a U.S. army plane to fly in the cartons of powdered food every two weeks. It cost my father a thousand U.S. dollars a month, but it was apparently worth it; my American grandfather survived three extra years. After he died, the remaining boxes of priceless orange space food stayed stacked in the pantry, collecting dust and cobwebs. When Pacita opened one of them, tiny black bugs swarmed over her hand. My grieving mother finally ordered the astronaut powder fed to the pigs.

When my
Abuelita
Socorro fell down and broke her hip during one of her annual visits from Spain, Mr. Goldenberg arranged for her to stay at the American Hospital, which was technically only for Americans. My father was grateful, and showered the Goldenbergs with gifts in return. A membership to the Monte Vista Country Club, boxes of Tabacalera cigars, cases of aged Spanish brandy, and gleaming tins of pale yellow Mango Tango ice cream, Mrs. Goldenberg’s favorite. When she was released from the hospital, my
abuelita
thanked the Goldenbergs profusely, offering a special novena for their souls. Privately, she took my father aside, curious whether the Goldenbergs were real Jews.

The Day of the Dead. All Souls’ Day, 1959. Or 1960—why is it so difficult to recall? Why didn’t I write it all down, keep diaries and journals, photos arranged in chronological order in a fat picture album? When Uncle Cristobal insists the Gonzagas make an effort to trace their genealogy, my father is the only member of the family who isn’t interested. Even my mother ridicules the Gonzaga’s genealogical chart as another example of their self-aggrandizement. “We are direct descendants of Christopher Columbus,” Uncle Agustin used to boast. “Well—I was named after him,” Uncle Cristobal would remind us. “Really, Bitot. You’re taking yourself too seriously,” my father tells him on the telephone. It’s one of those rare occasions when stingy Uncle Cristobal calls us long-distance from Spain. The two brothers argue over the phone, my father finally hanging up in a fit of petulance. To our surprise, Uncle Cristobal stubbornly goes ahead and spends his own money to hire a genealogist to work on our family tree. He squanders a fortune on this endeavor. Years later, after Uncle Cristobal dies, his lawyer sends us copies of our genealogical chart. Uncle Agustin and Uncle Esteban have theirs bound in leather. As soon as he receives his copy, my father purposely misplaces it.

I do not know my paternal great-grandfather’s name, or my great-grandmother’s. I’ve been told she was Chinese from Macao, that Uncle Cristobal burned the only photographs of her so there is no remaining evidence. And where was my maternal grandfather from? Somewhere in the Midwest, my mother shrugs and tells me. I am ashamed at having to invent my own history.

The only thing I know for sure is that my mother’s grandmother was the illegitimate and beautiful offspring of a village priest. My mother can never remember her name, and
Lola
Narcisa refuses to disclose it. The only thing
lola
has reluctantly told me is that her mother had blue-gray eyes, in startling contrast to her brown skin. The father of my blue-eyed great-grandmother was a Spanish missionary, and to speak his name was absolutely forbidden in my
Lola
Narcisa’s house.

We are in the bamboo garden, my
Lola
Narcisa and I. She points out the fragile, transparent snakeskin shed at the base of the bamboo grove. I am fascinated by its pale, ghostly texture, the ridges of serpent vertebrae so clearly etched in the abandoned shell it makes me shiver.

On the terrace above us, the women huddle over their elegant lunch. My mother Dolores, the guest of honor Joyce Goldenberg, Isabel Alacran, Mimi Pelayo, and Congressman Abad’s wife, Sylvia. Mrs. Goldenberg laughs too loud and chatters non-stop throughout the entire meal. The servants balance platters of grilled
bangus
, artfully arranged on beds of fresh parsley and sliced
kalamansi.
“Is it true,” Mimi Pelayo is saying to Isabel Alacran, “that your husband’s bringing over Anita Ekberg to do the new SPORTEX campaign?”

“No, no! Isn’t he bringing over that other one, Claudia Cardinale?” my mother Dolores says.

“Who’s Claudia Cardinala?” Joyce Goldenberg wants to know.

“Cardinale,” Isabel Alacran corrects her again. Her voice is steady, soothing, filled with authority. A hush falls over the women as she speaks. I shut her out, picking up the snakeskin to examine it more closely.
Lola
Narcisa bends toward me, making one of her interested sounds. Since my grandfather’s death she talks in sentences only when absolutely necessary. Otherwise she groans and clucks, hisses or chuckles very softly, to imply pleasure or amusement.

“RIO!” my mother shouts, alarmed. I look up, distracted. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” She makes a move to get up from the table, a frown on her face.

“Snake,” I answer, without thinking. Joyce Goldenberg squeals in terror; the other women stop eating. My mother stands up, but doesn’t come any closer.

“What in god’s name are you doing?” She glares at her mother, angry now.
Lola
Narcisa gazes calmly at her.

“It’s only skin, Dolores. It can’t hurt anyone,”
Lola
Narcisa says in careful English.

My mother keeps glaring at her, but speaks to me. “Put that thing down right now and wash your hands,” she commands, before going back to her food.

1960. Joselito Sanchez’s younger brother Tonyboy brings me back stacks of records from America: 45s, 78s, 33 LPs. Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, Ritchie Valens, Chubby Checker, Joey Dee and the Starliters. I’m in bliss. Tonyboy teaches me the latest dances. The Madison, the Twist. Even though he’s dark, Pucha thinks he’s okay because he’s so rich. He shows me how to slow-drag, rubs his groin hard up against my crotch. Or we join Raul and watch television, the big box of dreams my father brings home one day as a surprise.
Tawag Ng Tangbalan, I Love Lucy.
When my brother’s out of the room, Tonyboy asks if I need a lesson in French-kissing. I ply him with questions based on material I’ve gathered from my treasured
Photoplay
and
Silver Screen
magazines. Pucha and I have just seen
Imitation of Life.
Is it true about Lana Turner’s daughter killing that gangster? “When I grow up, I’m moving to Hollywood,” I announce to Tonyboy. “Oh yeah sure,” he murmurs, burying his face in my neck. I’m impressed with his American accent, the way he says “Oh yeah sure” with such confidence.

“I can see it now,” Tonyboy says, with a hint of sarcasm, “giant billboards in Quiapo advertising INDAY GOES TO HOLLYWOOD, starring Rio Gonzaga. We’ll get Tito Severo to produce it as a musical—” We are slow-dragging expertly to something mournful by Frankie Lymon. Tonyboy makes a clumsy attempt to fondle my nonexistent breasts. I slap his hand. “Stupid—you don’t believe me? I’m going to make movies, Tonyboy. Not act in them!” I look at him angrily.

“What an imagination!” Tonyboy laughs, sticking his tongue in my ear.

Maybe 1960 or 1961.
West Side Story
plays to a standing-room-only audience at the Galaxy Theater. Pucha and I are seated in the balcony. Rosemary Garcia and her sister Belen are sitting in the row in front of us. We are chaperoned by a sullen Raul, who would rather see his idol, Jack Palance, starring in
Bazooka!
at the rat-infested theater in the Escolta; he would rather be anywhere but here. He is embarrassed and bored by our movie, making loud wisecracks every time Natalie Wood opens her mouth to sing. “Look at those fillings! The girl’s got cavities!” He hoots in the darkness, he curses at the screen, calling the lithe, dancing actors a bunch of
baklas.
The audience titters at my brother’s remarks. I sink lower in my seat. Someone in the orchestra section yells at Raul to shut up. “Come and get me, you bastard!” Raul yells back, enjoying himself now. “
Dios mio
, Raul—” Pucha mutters, making faces at me in the darkness. Defiantly, Raul lights a cigarette. A timid usher shines a flashlight in our direction, but makes no move to stop him.

This is how my brother meets his first love, Belen Garcia. She turns around and gives him a withering look. She is very pretty, with long hair and freckles on her nose. My cousin Pucha finds Belen’s freckles strange and repulsive, but I have long ago stopped taking her opinions too seriously. “You’re ruining the movie for everyone,” Belen Garcia says to Raul. “Why are you so rude?” She seems to feel sorry for my brother, which confuses and intrigues him. He has never been confronted so directly by anyone so attractive. He is silenced, and apologizes to her quietly when the movie is over.

Belen Garcia becomes Raul’s first wife. They marry young, but so does everyone else we know. She bears him three children in rapid succession, all girls. My parents argue:
Females will be this family’s curse. Girls are fine. Girls are a burden. This isn’t China! No, it’s worse.
My brother and Mikey are often stopped for breaking curfew. They joke with the soldiers who stop them; they bribe them with cash to avoid being sent off to Camp Meditation. Mikey gets sent there once, arrested for drunken driving and speeding with Joselito Sanchez. “It wasn’t so bad,” Mikey brags to my brother. “They had us pulling weeds and mopping up toilets.” My father bails Raul out of several sticky situations during martial law; he threatens to disown Raul, but my brother doesn’t take him seriously. Belen Garcia gives up and leaves him, taking her babies with her. My brother meets another woman, named Erlinda. She bears him two more girls, and they are married in a civil ceremony. “They are living in sin,”
Tita
Florence says to my mother, who doesn’t respond. The names of Raul’s daughters are: Filomena, Raquel, Josefina, Esmeralda, and Dolores, after my mother.

Abuelita
Socorro dies in Spain. She goes into a coma, and never gets to say goodbye to anyone. No one is sure what really ailed her. Maybe her insides just gave up after all the rich foods she ate. No greens in her long life, no fruits or vegetables. My father retreats into his bedroom and weeps privately. Uncle Cristobal flies her body back to Manila, so she can be buried next to her husband. Her funeral is more lavish than
Abuelito
’s.

My mother has been right all along.
Abuelita
Socorro leaves everything to her priest and her church. She is buried wearing her black dress and matching pumps, her strands of pearls, and her black rosary wrapped around her wrist; her brilliant emeralds dangle from her ears.

Mr. Goldenberg and his wife survive Saudi Arabia. Years later, my mother receives a letter. Mrs. Goldenberg has divorced her husband and manages an art gallery in Florida. Trixie Goldenberg has married twice and is infertile. Mr. Goldenberg has retired from his diplomatic career and lives in New York. He is writing a book of memoirs, and is often nostalgic for Manila.

“How are you and Freddie?” he writes my mother. “I miss your wonderful dinner parties, and all that incredible food. I assume Pacita is still with you…And what about your son, Raul? Is he working yet? Last but not least, your daughter Rio, and that wild cousin of hers, Pucha…”

Pucha’s first wish is granted. She marries Boomboom Alacran as soon as she graduates from high school.
Tita
Florence and Uncle Agustin are elated and orchestrate an elaborate wedding which my father helps pay for. Pucha starves herself for a month and manages to lose ten pounds. She squeezes into a frilly white gown even though she is no longer a virgin. Chiquiting Moreno is sent for to do her hair. I am one of her bridesmaids, dressed in a dreadful concoction of pastel pink chiffon and lace. Pucha insists on a pink and white wedding—we’re straight out of one of her storybook fantasies, and she cries with happiness.

It is a terrible marriage, which barely lasts a year. Boomboom is insanely jealous, and locks Pucha in the bedroom before paying his daily visit to the Monte Vista, where he sits around all day drinking and gambling. Because he is an Alacran, he never has to work. He accuses Pucha of countless betrayals, he beats her frequently. With the help of her terrified servant Ramona, Pucha finally engineers an escape one night while Boomboom is out getting drunk with his friends. Clad only in her nightgown, Pucha and Ramona hail a taxi to Uncle Agustin’s house. The scandal that ensues drags on for weeks, with Boomboom threatening to kill himself on Pucha’s front lawn. Mikey comes home from Bicol to defend his sister’s dubious honor. Pucha never speaks to Boomboom again. My cousin is forced to get her foreign divorce in the end, but she continues to use the name Pucha Alacran.

My mother begins painting shortly after her fiftieth birthday. Except for occasional drawing lessons with Horacio, she has had no formal training in art and is ignorant of its history. She paints and paints; with furious energy, she covers immense canvases with slashes of red, black, yellow, and mauve. She uses the same colors in different combinations. “My bleeding bouquets,” she calls them. She moves into Raul’s now empty room and converts it into her bedroom-studio. My father acts as if everything were normal, even when Uncle Agustin says, “Your wife has slapped you in the face.”