Dogeaters (6 page)

“DON’T FORGET THE LYSOL!” he yells. Andres leans forward and lights my cigarette. He pours himself some awful Spanish brandy. His puffy mestizo face with its prominent nose and broken blood vessels is tinged pink with excitement; Andres can’t wait for his bar to open so he can reign over his establishment, all that really matters to him now. He could never accept the fact that I’m CocoRico’s main attraction, the DJ and real star of the show. I’m sure Andres considers me one of his charity cases, just like Pedro.

Andres wears his long, dyed black hair swept back into a greased ponytail. “My gaucho hair, my tango hair,” he proudly calls it, adjusting his signature Basque beret. In his youth, Andres Alacran was known as the best tango dancer in Manila. He was so good, they brought him in to teach all the old movie stars at Mabuhay Studios; he even made cameo appearances in quite a few musicals. The Fred Astaire of the Philippines, “El Professor de Tango”—Andres has all the clippings in his scrapbooks from bygone days to prove it.

Andres discovered his one true love, a genuine hermaphrodite named Eugenio/Eugenia, starring in a traveling freak show—the kind I saw as a child in those sleazy carnivals that pitched their tents on the outskirts of Manila. Uncle used to take me. We’d see The Bearded Woman from Mexico, a stocky wonder with glittering eyes, thick wavy hair like Jesus, and a full-length beard. The Borneo Man, a terrifying spectacle with his forlorn eyes and python’s body curled up on the makeshift stage. Seven Little Dwarves Direct from Zamboanga, asleep in matching cribs, unfortunate infants with the wrinkled faces of old men, dressed in red jester’s caps and matching red booties with tiny bells on the tips of their curled toes. The Man from Java knew Uncle personally and proudly made his living tearing the heads off live chickens with his teeth. The gloomy, dusty carnivals thrilled me. I could never get enough.

Eugenio/Eugenia. Andres talks about him all the time. I’ve seen pictures. Faded sepia photographs inscribed: “Yours truly, E. 1937. Love, Always.” Andres and Eugenio/Eugenia dancing the tango together, Eugenio/Eugenia’s head thrown back in a graceful swoon: 1938.
Corny
, but that’s a Spaniard for you. 1939: Andres in a striped, boatneck French sweater, the kind he still wears from time to time. “My Apache look,” he giggles. He wasn’t bad-looking then, I’ll have to admit, except for that parrot’s beak of a nose. He wore his ridiculous beret in every picture.

Holding a long cigarette holder, Eugenio/Eugenia poses in a beaded flapper dress, his square-jawed, unsmiling face and pretty Chinese eyes heavily made up. Some of the photos are tinted, the hermaphrodite’s lips painted a bright red, his cheeks pink and rosy. Everything is slightly off, carefully posed and artificial. “Wasn’t he beautiful?” Andres moans, taking one last look before putting away his snapshots in a treasure chest of souvenirs he preserves in the mini-fridge under the counter. I don’t respond.

“He could look like Valentino, dressed to the nines as a man,” Andres would reminisce dreamily. “Those were the days! We’d go to town and have dinner with my friends. Then—off to the nightclubs! I even took him home to meet my parents. ‘Mama, Papa—meet Eugenio Villarosa, son of Dr. Epifanio Villarosa of Cebu,’ I said, making it up as I went along. My father shook his hand. ‘I’m sure I know your father,’ he said, Mama nodding her head in agreement. They never suspected a thing, invited him to stay for dinner…” Andres shakes his head slowly. “I tried to get him in the movies, but failed. That’s what he wanted most of all—to be a movie star in one of those Mabuhay musicals. He got so jealous of me and my cameos. ‘I can sing and dance better than any woman!’ He would say. Poor darling. Mabuhay Studios knew his true identity, and wouldn’t give him a chance.”

They were Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, winning first prize in all the dance contests. It’s all true. I’ve seen pictures of Andres grinning like a fool next to a deadpan Eugenio/Eugenia, now dressed as a woman, both of them holding up trophies and awards. Their stormy love affair lasted on and off for two years. When Andres failed to land him a movie contract, Eugenio/Eugenia left the apartment they shared without warning. It happened right after the Japs occupied Manila. Eugenio/Eugenia disappeared without a trace and was never heard from again. Andres is heartbroken to this day. “There are rumors,” he once said, “so many rumors. He was in Macao, singing in a nightclub. Consorting with a Japanese General. Working as a spy for British Intelligence, smuggling bullets in his brassiere. Captured by Chinese guerrillas and executed for alleged war crimes: Can you imagine? They must’ve died when the autopsy was performed—”

“Autopsy?” Andres likes to impress me with big English words.

“Idiot! Aren’t you always watching TV?” he roars impatiently. “Those cop shows you’re so crazy about—they’re always having autopsies performed on dead people to see why they died!” Andres takes a deep breath, then calms down. “What the hell, Joey. I believe all the
tsismis
about him. He was absolutely capable of anything. He had no morals. The last rumor I heard is probably closest to the truth: that he is very much alive, still living in Macao as a woman, married to some wealthy Portuguese.”

I toast the memory of the hermaphrodite. “To the love of your life, El Professor—”

Andres nods, finishing his brandy. “To love,
period
—” he adds, grimly.

When I’m not at the bar, I stay in all day, sleeping. I love to sleep. I could sleep for ten, twelve hours at a time. I come alive at twilight, refreshed by my sleep and the cooling effects of the oncoming darkness, the setting sun. I’m energized and electric, a vampire ready for action.

“Night time / is the right / time,” as the old song goes, if I’m not with some stranger whose name I have to strain to remember. It’s a surprise, waking up like I do, trying to make out the form asleep beside me. Frantically assembling little details in my mind, so I can remember something, anything. So I can say the right thing, collect my money, and say goodbye. Sometimes it’s pleasant—waking up like I do, in fancy hotel rooms with clean sheets and the air conditioner always on. What I like best is waking up alone in bachelor apartments—the kind rich guys rent in Makati—surrounded by invisible servants, elaborate stereo systems, bottles of imported cologne and aftershave arranged in gleaming bathrooms Andres would die for, my money waiting for me in an envelope discreetly left on a table near the front door. My steady clients, my one-night stands. Some more thoughtful than others, surprising me with an extra cash bonus, or a chain bracelet with my name engraved in gold. Sometimes I’ll steal from them, just to make a point. A bottle of cologne, a Rolex left carelessly next to the bathroom sink. It keeps that element of danger alive in their luxurious rooms. I never keep what’s given to me as a gift; I like to let them know how little their trinkets are really worth, what kind of dope I bought with their money. It’s a warning, my philosophy of life—keeping things slightly off-balance. It’s how I survive.

CocoRico: Andres takes care of introductions at the bar. “You must meet Joey,” he’ll tell some foreigner, calling me over during a break. “Our famous DJ, he’ll keep you dancing.” Andres might wink if he’s drunk enough, before turning away and letting things happen. He’s not a bad boss. I’m paid in cash every night for playing my music. I can play anything I want, as long as the crowd keeps dancing and buying drinks. Andres wants nothing else from me. Everything on the side is mine to keep, as long as I’m discreet, as long as the crowd keeps dancing.

I go home to sleep on the floor of Uncle’s shack in Tondo, his square box of odds and ends with its tin roof and plywood walls. The toilet’s a hole in the ground Uncle dug outside, with a lean-to roof and a makeshift door. Andres would faint at the sight and smell of it, but it suits me fine.

It’s a cozy shelter from the rain, a step above a squatter’s hut. I’d never tell Uncle that, of course. He’d slit my throat. I could never insult the house he built with his own hands, it’s where I go when I need to get away. It’s where I grew up—Uncle’s orphanage for wayward boys. I sleep right next to chickens, pigs, goats, and dogs.

Hey, I’m just kidding. Uncle has one mongrel, that’s all. An ancient rice hound, probably older than Uncle, with yellow-brown teeth and mangy fur. Ugly as sin. Uncle named the dog Taruk.

One time, when I was around thirteen years old, me and Boy-Boy got drunk and mean on
tuba.
Prodding the dog’s scrawny butt with the tips of our shoes, we made it growl by pretending we were going to kick it. The dog was tied up; we kept lunging at it and laughing. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded kicking it for real. I’d been tempted, many times. That beast was so mean and ugly, there was no love lost between us. I knew better than to hurt him; that dog is part of Uncle. Boy-Boy and I were just teasing.

Uncle walked in and surprised us. “Don’t you bastards have anything better to do? If you’d think with your brains rather than your pricks—GET AWAY FROM THAT ANIMAL! If you touch a hair on his head—”

“That’s the ugliest dog in Manila,” Boy-Boy snickered, slurring his words. “I’m not even sure it’s a dog. Are you sure it’s a dog, Joey? See, Uncle—Joey isn’t sure!” he hiccupped. “You should have that poor dog put to sleep. That’s an ugly, sorry animal—”

Oh shit, I thought. Boy-Boy was asking for it. His face was red and splotchy, his eyes cloudy with alcohol. Like a Chinaman, Boy-Boy couldn’t hold his liquor too well. He was a dummy besides, and never knew when to shut up. I could see it all coming, as the old man flew at him.

Uncle slapped Boy-Boy, hard. Boy-Boy’s head snapped sideways with the force of the blow. Uncle lifted his arm to hit him again. Boy-Boy said nothing, just stared at him—one cheek redder than the other, his eyes watering with pain. “Uncle,” I said softly. I could see Boy-Boy trying to suppress his own anger, fighting back tears. “He didn’t mean it,” I said.

“You boys are dumb shits. Think you know everything. Bigshots! You don’t even know how to drink,” the old man sneered, relaxing enough to let his arm drop. He stroked the back of the dog’s neck. “Taruk is my dog, you understand? My dog. And this is my house. If you don’t like it, get out!”

In silence, we finished the rest of our
tuba
, puffing nervously on harsh, local-made Marlboros. The animal crouched near Uncle’s feet, eyeing us with suspicion and growling from time to time. It’s hard to challenge Uncle and win. There’s always that moment when Uncle loses his sense of humor. His face sets and hardens. He refuses to budge; it’s no use arguing with him. He’d just as soon kill you.

As for chickens, goats, and pigs—you can forget it. It’s just another one of my jokes. Uncle’s no peasant—he’s a city man, born and bred in Manila. Busy with schemes and hustles, his various transactions with the Chinese and the cops, he functions in an opium haze, most days. But his mind stays sharp and cunning, no matter what. Don’t make a mistake and underestimate the old man. You’ll be in for an unpleasant surprise.

There are those who resent Uncle, who call him a pusher and common pimp. There’s nothing common about him. When you think about it, the old man’s been my savior. Raised me like his own son, along with Boy-Boy, Chito, and Carding. We’ve outgrown him, but we come back to visit whenever we can. Everyone else has a place of their own. To tell you the truth, I’m the only one who hasn’t really left.

Soon.

I’ll have it all worked out, soon. I know I will. I have to. I’ll hit the jackpot with one of these guys. Leave town. I’ll get lucky like Junior. Some foreign woman will sponsor me and take me to the States. Maybe she’ll marry me. I’ll get my green card. Wouldn’t that be something?

I love it when everything falls into place. Don’t you?

Soon.

Everything will change, soon.

The most inaccessible lairs of these wild mountains are inhabited by a great number of those small Negroes called “Negritoes” whom we spoke about earlier; sometimes they are chased out of their homes, taken prisoners, the youngest among them being chosen to be raised by inhabitants in their homes until the age of reason, in the meantime being used for diverse chores, after which they are set free. One of our friends owned one which he gave to us; he was called Panchote, was not lacking in intelligence and was most of all very mischievous.

—Jean Mallat, The Philippines (1846)

T
HERE ARE THOSE WHO
say my poor whore of a mother sold me to Uncle for fifty pesos.
Zenaida:
desperate, half-crazy, unable to feed me and herself those last few months. They say she was still young and still beautiful, they shake their heads solemnly at the terrible waste. I’m not sure they’re telling the whole truth; maybe she was more ordinary than they remember, an ordinary whore with a ravaged face. They describe how she jumped in the river, a watery grave black with human shit, every dead thing and piece of garbage imaginable: the rotting carcasses of wild dogs and cats, enormous rats with heads blown off by bullets, broken tree branches and the tangled bouquets of wilted banana leaves, palm fronds, and
kalachuchi
flowers. When they pulled out my mother’s blue corpse, they say her long black hair was entwined in this mass of slimy foliage and decay, a gruesome veil of refuse dragging on the mud beneath her.

This is what they tell me, this is what I’ve chosen to believe. They say Zenaida’s ghost still haunts that section of the river, a mournful apparition in the moonlight. Boy-Boy claims he’s seen her more than once, but I don’t believe him.

Zenaida. She was a legendary whore, my mother. Disgraced and abandoned, just like in the movies. Driven to take her own life. My father was not the first man to promise her anything, that much I know for sure. Uncle identified her bloated body, arranged for her pauper’s burial. That’s why I owe him. No one knew her last name, what province she came from, if she had any other family besides me. They say I was five or six years old, that I was mute for months after her death. I was so dark, small, and thin, they called me “
Gagamba
”—little spider. I went home with Uncle and never shed a tear. I don’t want to remember anything else about my sad whore of a mother. I’ve heard enough. That’s why I never ask Uncle. That’s why he never brings her up.