Dogeaters (33 page)

Without warning, she cheerfully announces she is sending me to school in America and moving there with me for an indefinite period. I am ecstatic, at first. Everyone else is stunned. My father cannot stop her—my mother has inherited money from her father and pays for our passage to America. We settle first in New York, then Boston. I convince myself I am not homesick, and try not to bring up my father or brother when I speak. My mother actually sells a few paintings. The months turn into years. “Are we going to stay here forever?” I finally ask her. She looks surprised. “I don’t know about you, but I love the cold weather. Go back to Manila if you want. Tell Raul I miss him more than he could ever imagine.” She smiles one of her cryptic smiles. “But he’ll have to visit me here if he wants to see me—” her voice trails off.

Raul writes me letters in red ink, polite letters quoting from the Scriptures and inquiring about my health. He achieves local fame as a spiritualist healer and preaches to his followers in the countryside. Erlinda and the children follow close behind, his loyal family of believers. He distances himself from the rest of the Gonzagas, who are ashamed of his newfound fundamentalist Christian ministry. Only Pucha, of all people, visits him regularly. She writes me notes on Hallmark greeting cards:

Oye, prima—que ba, when are you coming back? Tonyboy asked about you, I saw him at SPORTEX boy he still looks grate! I think he left his wife you dont know her shes a forinner from Austria or Australia you know he told me you really broke his heart when you left plus you never answered any of his letters, pobrecito
naman
! WOW! I saw Raul yesterday at that new apt. of his I brought him new clothes for the kids, theres so many! Erlinda’s pregnant again. I didnt stay two long, he was in one of his moods you know how Raul gets. Hes always complaineing you dont write anybody and its true. Write him, okay? And send your mother my regards I hope shes not mad at me. Thanks be to God my parents are okay. Uncle Esteban had another operation, in case you didnt here. Mommie says HELLO! She and Papi had
merienda
with your father last Sunday. Mikeys getting married. AT LAST. Why dont you come to the wedding?

Love & prayers,

PUCHA

When I finally come home to Manila to visit, my father warns me not to bother visiting our old house. “You’ll be disappointed. Memories are always better.” Smiling apologetically, he tells me reality will diminish the grandeur of my childhood image of home. I take his picture with my new camera, which later falls in the swimming pool by accident. The camera is destroyed, along with my roll of film. I decide to visit our old house in Mandaluyong anyway, borrowing a car from Mikey. Pucha goes with me; she loves riding around in cars and doesn’t need any excuse. “After that, let’s go to the Intercon Hotel and have a drink,” she says, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. “Put on some makeup,” she bosses me, “you look tired.” I laugh. Pucha is up to her old tricks. She applies thick coats of blue eyeshadow on her heavy eyelids, studying her face in the mirror with rapt concentration.

My father is right. The house with its shuttered windows looks smaller than I remember, and dingy. The once lush and sprawling garden is now a forlorn landscape of rocks, weeds, and wild ferns. The bamboo grove has been cut down. “Let’s go,” Pucha whispers, impatient and uninterested. An old man with bright eyes introduces himself as Manong Tibo, the caretaker. He unlocks door after door for us, pulling aside cobwebs, warning us to be careful. Rotting floorboards creak under the weight of our footsteps. “My bedroom,” I say to the old man, who nods. I am overwhelmed by melancholy at the sight of the empty room. A frightened mouse dashes across the grimy tiled floor. Pucha jumps back and screams, clutching and pinching my arm. “Let’s go,” she pleads. “Wait outside. I’ll be there soon,” I say, trying to conceal my irritation. I am relieved finally to be alone, in this desolate house with only Manong for company. He studies me with his bright eyes. “You live in America?” His niece is a nurse in San Francisco, California, he tells me with pride. Someday, he hopes she’ll send for him.

I stay another hour, walking in and out of the dusty rooms in a kind of stupor. The shutters in the windows of the kitchen, Pacita’s kingdom, are hanging from their hinges. The gas stove and refrigerator are gone. “Thieves,” Manong shrugs, when I ask him. Broken glass is scattered on the floor. He tells me the house will be torn down within the month and a complex of offices built in its place. The property and the squatters’ land adjoining it have been bought by the Alacran corporation, Intercoco.

I say good-bye and thank the old man. “See you in America!” Manong Tibo says, waving farewell. Pucha is slumped down in the front seat of the car, irritated, hot, and sweaty. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone but you,” she grumbles without looking at me, then peers into the rearview mirror. “Look at my makeup!” She gives me an accusing look. I slide into the driver’s seat, fighting back tears. Suddenly, I grab her hand. She stares at me, puzzled. “Are you okay?” It seems an eternity, but I pull myself together. Pucha hands me her lace handkerchief, drenched in perfume. “Watch out when you blow your nose—okay,
prima
?” She teases. She squeezes my hand, uncomfortable with our display of affection. I start the car, turning to look at her before we drive away. “I really love you,” I say, to her utter amazement.

My cousin will find happiness with a man, once and for all. He is a stranger to us, a modest man from a modest family, someone we never knew in our childhood. The Gonzagas breathe a collective sigh of relief. Pucha lives with her new husband, childless and content; she never leaves Manila.

My
Lola
Narcisa lives to be a very old woman. She is the main reason for my frequent visits to Manila; I dread not being there when she dies.

I return to North America. I save all Raul’s letters, along with my father’s cordial birthday telegrams and Pucha’s gossipy notes, in a large shopping bag labeled FAMILY. I move to another city, approximately five thousand miles away from where my mother lives and paints. We talk on the phone once a week. I am anxious and restless, at home only in airports. I travel whenever I can. My belief in God remains tentative. I have long ago stopped going to church. I never marry.

In my recurring dream, my brother and I inhabit the translucent bodies of nocturnal moths with curved, fragile wings. We are pale green, with luminous celadon eyes, fantastic and beautiful. In dream after dream, we are drawn to the same silent tableau: a mysterious light glowing from the window of a deserted, ramshackle house. The house is sometimes perched on a rocky abyss, or on a dangerous cliff overlooking a turbulent sea. The meaning is simple and clear, I think. Raul and I embrace our destiny: we fly around in circles, we swoop and dive in effortless arcs against a barren sky, we flap and beat our wings in our futile attempts to reach what surely must be heaven.

P
UWEDE BA? 1956, 1956! RIO
, you’ve got it all wrong. Think about it: 1956 makes no sense. It must have started sometime around 1959, at the very least! You like to mix things up on purpose,
di ba
?
Esta loca
,
prima. Que ba
—this is cousin Pucha you’re talking to…
Doña,
we grew up together like sisters, excuse me tang! I’m no
intelektwal
as you’ve pointed out loud and clear, but my memory’s just as good as anybody’s…

Hoy,
what are you trying to prove? Your
kalocohan
I don’t understand. We got movies late in those days, don’t you remember? They advertised them as “first-run,” but it wasn’t like it is now; back then, the movies were as much as two or three years behind the times, and I don’t think that one was in color, that one you keep describing with Rock Hudson.
Oye
,
prima
—Rock is
still
my idol, I should know! And that one with Shelley Winters and Liz Taylor—I don’t remember saying Shelley deserved to die, I would never say anything like that—even if she is really
sin verguenza,
she let herself go to the dogs and get fat, did you ever see
The Poseidon Adventure
? I tell you, I never saw that movie in my life! If you’re gonna talk about the past, don’t say I said horrible things I never said,
puwede ba
, how could you do that to me? I don’t think it’s very funny, not at all. I never went to movies condemned by the Church.
Chica,
I may be a divorced woman like you say, but I don’t spit in the eyes of God and willingly commit sin! You’re mixing me up with someone else.

I may not remember all the details, but I certainly should know WHO was making eyes at me in the Café España that fateful afternoon! It was my first husband, Ramon Assad.
Puwede ba
, he was never fat, not ever in his life—in fact, we used to call him “Ting-Ting”—I think you made that up, you were always good with nicknames. Ramoncito was so skinny he reminded you of a broom, “
walis ting-ting
!” How can you forget that? And he had pretty eyelashes and perfect skin—you used to tease me about it. How can you call him fat and ugly? Look at me—I’m fat now, but still sexy. He was crazy for my boobs and my hips—he liked his women big. Ramoncito was never fat, he could eat and eat and he made me eat with him; he never gained a pound. My mother thought he had tapeworm. Plus he never beat me—the reason I left was because I was tired of supporting
him.
How could you mix him up with that
baboy
Boomboom Alacran?

Well, you never liked Ramoncito, and he knew it. For once in your life, you were probably right. He was a lousy husband, except in the sack. My mother warned me: “You can’t live on kisses alone.” I almost did, but God brought me to my senses. I just want you to get my damn history straight, Rio—
puwede ba
, it matters to me.

Maybe the movie was in color, maybe not. That’s not what’s important.
Oye
,
prima
—this much is true, you’d better wake up and accept it: 1959 was many years ago. Your mother’s father is alive. Your
Lola
Narcisa is dead. Our
abuelito
and
abuelita
are alive and well and living in Mallorca with
Tito
Cristobal. Your father isn’t poor—how can you lie about such big things? Belen Garcia is still married to your brother, who works for your father at Intercoco. Your mother and father are still together. Nobody’s perfect, Rio—but your parents stayed married no matter what, through thick and thin and your father’s
kalocohan,
thanks be to God.

Pobrecita naman
, Isabel Alacran died of cancer in 1967—but everyone else is fine, I’m telling you!

Nothing is impossible, I suppose, with that crazy imagination of yours. I’m not surprised by anything you do or say, but if I were you,
prima
, I’d leave well enough alone.

O
UR MOTHER, WHO ART
in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. Thy will not be done. Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom never came. You who have been defiled, belittled, and diminished. Our Blessed Virgin Mary of Most Precious Blood, menstrual, ephemeral, carnal, eternal. Rosa Mystica, Black Virgin of Rhinestone and Velvet Mystery, Madonna of Volcanoes and Violence, your eye burns through the palm of my outstretched hand. Eye glowing with heavenly flames, one single Eye watching over me, on earth as it is in heaven.

Dammit, mother dear. There are serpents in your garden. Licking your ears with forked tongues, poisoning your already damaged heart. I am suffocated by my impotent rage, my eyes are blinded by cataracts blue as your miraculous robes, I listen intently for snatches of melody, the piercing high-pitched wail of your, song of terror.’

Here, clues to your ghostly presence in the lingering trail of your deadly perfume: wild roses and plumeria, the dizzying fragrance of damas de noche, the rotting bouquets of wilted sampaguita flowers you cradle in your arms.

I would curse you in Waray, Ilocano, Tagalog, Spanish, English, Portuguese, and Mandarin; I would curse you but I choose to love you instead. Amor, amas, amatis, amant, give us this day our daily bread.

Our mother who art, what have those bastards gone and done now? Your eyes are veiled and clouded by tears, veiled but never blinded. Dazzle us with your pity, let the scars tattooed on your face be a reminder of your perennial sorrow. Kyrie eleison. Kyrie eleison. Lamb of goddammit who taketh away the sins of the world!

My dim eyes scan the shadows in vain, Ave Maria full of grace, ha missa est. Manila I was born here, Manila I will die here, tantum ergo
s
acramentum. So the daughters say, so the sons seek out miracles, so the men will not live to see the light.

Your long monkey toes grip the hairy coconuts strewn at your feet, virgin with one ear pierced by a thorn. Stigmata of mercy, the blood of a slain rooster spouts from the open palms of your monkey hands, stigmata of beautiful suffering and insane endurance, Dolores dolorosa. Spilled blood of innocents, dead by the bullet, the dagger, the arrow; dead by the slingshot of polished stones, dead by grenades, hunger and thirst; dead by profound longing and profound despair; spilled blood of ignited flesh, exploded flesh, radiated flesh; spilled blood of forbidden knowledge, bless us, Mother, for we have sinned.

Our Mother who art in heaven,
forgive us our sins.
Our Lady of Most Precious Blood, Wild Dogs, Hyenas, Jackals, Coyotes, and Wolves, Our Lady of Panthers and Jaguars, Our Lady of Cobras, Mournful Lizards, Lost Souls, and Radio Melodramas,
give us this day;
Our Lady of Typhoons,
deliver us from evil, forgive us our sins but not theirs.

Ave Maria, mother of revenge. The Lord was never with you. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed are the fruits of thy womb: guavas, mangos, santol, mangosteen, durian. Now and forever, world without end. Now and forever.

T
HE AUTHOR WISHES TO
acknowledge the MacDowell Colony, the Writer’s Room, and the Center for American Culture Studies at Columbia University for space, support, and sustenance during the writing of this book. The New York State Council for the Arts provided several writer-in-residence grants which are deeply appreciated.