Herself (25 page)

Nothing cd have been more wrong. The main impetus was supplied by the Filipinos themselves, their gaiety and liveliness. The dress of the women is quite lovely, after the eye gets used to the idea—variety of color, rather than blending or contrasting. The “mestiza” dress typically has a sleeve shaped like a flat, large pancake, with the thin edge up-ended over the wearer’s shoulder, sleeve often transparent tulle, with a border, sometimes sequined—whatever the wearer’s fancy has indicated. Beyond that it is fitted, sheath, tho it may have harem skirt, or other modernities or conventions. One woman was wearing a long one all in black with gold embroidered figures at set intervals—this was called something else—“terman”—something like. The queen who won was Chinese—very beautiful. But other things count in the voting—(last yr’s was C. also)—father an influential C. newspaperman, commonly called “Jimmy Go.”

The dances were charming, ranging from sedate, Spanish-style minuet—our women, except for one or two were terrible—Filapenas and Chinese far more graceful. Two professionals, man and woman, then did a fandango, a wonderful dance where the lady carries first one; then two, and finally three lighted candles in glasses (these like the Jewish jahrzeit memorial lights) while dancing—one on her head. Very lovely—lights in room turned out of course. One group dances with castanets. Last dance, the tini-kling, is done by two people in an intricate stepping in-and-out between two long bamboo poles clapped and parted in set rhythm, on blocks on floor, by two players. Broken ankles if you miss.

During the performance, we sat on the floor on newspaper, many of us, because the seats at sides, constructed of long light logs on blocks, collapsed twice, dumping twenty or so elegant beauties on the floor. And once a large squash fell. Nobody hurt, everybody gay. Somewhat like a square-dance atmosphere—or the one suburban Americans try for—if one could substitute for our fake farm-dirndls very polished dress on women, tiny, very elegant shoes, the heaviest of perfumes—with my usual luck I sat next to something that made Tabu an innocent floral essence—and a gaiety we cannot counterpart. Ladies passed us handfuls of a wonderful greenish-yellow flower, long, curled leaves rather than petals, and a heady smell I liked—the ilang-ilang. I held on to it for a long time. Handfuls of pennies were passed for us to throw, as a token of appreciation to dancers—not the equiv. of a catcall.

Before this we had dined on a somewhat French (head of kitchen is a Mme. Dupont) version of local foods; suckling pig, a fish mousse rather Swedish, Spanish rice tomato-style paella, with tiny whole clams with shell, embedded in it. Chinese rice balls—dead-white dough—ignored by all old hands but I had to taste, and then ignored also. Huge platter of cold fish beautifully boiled, trimmed with the usual fancies. Large shrimp, or perhaps they were a kind of crayfish, also in shells. Very nice. I was squired by Mr. Mattison and a heavy genial gent named Tull—Press attaché I think—as American as a dentist on a spree—whooping and cat-calling, and a brush moustache. Not unpleasant, and not stupid. Still. … Very tiny wife, rather typical embassy, living better than she ever wd at home, servants, etc., and getting rather “colonial.” Sample, when talking of her new boycook “I don’t care what he gives me for lunch, my tastes are simple—I just don’t like to walk in at 12:30 and be
asked
what I
want
for lunch!” At home she wd fix herself a sandwich, and no such airs. But generally it was very pleasant, sorry not to get to know Mrs. Mattison better. So home—hotel is all of a block from U.P., but everybody travels even a block in cars.

Today, Sunday, I have loafed, written this, and am just back from the Chinese restaurant. Nothing until 7, when I meet the P.E.N. club at the U.P. club. Up since 6:30 however—cannot seem to sleep late, and it is now 5. Shall siesta. Later perhaps write about the awful slum just in back of the hotel. A bombed building or just the foundation of, in which people are living, hanging clothes—roof made of odd bits of rusted iron, tin, whatever, insides and outside curb strewn with filth—it is hard to know where the “building” begins and the refuse piles end. Yet people do seem to live here, opposite an elegant, whitewashed very modern Riviera-style apartment house—opposite several, as a matter of fact. One end of the bombed-out place has walls made of the wooden boxes whiskey comes in, some distillers name still on them, all neatly stacked to fill in the interstices between whatever girders, etc., are left. I have also been reading
Six Filipino Poets
—a small book. Full of their own sensibility, very romantic. Shall I ask them, tonight, about this back alley where the clothes are washed and laid on the curb to sun, on filth? Wondered, as I passed it, how they manage for toilet facilities, etc.
Will
ask. Lighter note for the day—large, very clear sign in the window door of the beauty shop in the hotel
“WE ACCEPT BODY MASSAGE.”
I suppose they mean provide? Or maybe not.

And here it is Wednesday, the first of October. So many things one cannot put down, and hopefully may remember—the corner sign large as life (only two Sundays ago was ?) not far from the hotel in Fukuoka, saying
NUDE PHOTOGRAPHS
… the one on a bookshop not far from
here
, elegantly gilt, saying
BROWSE IN.
Philippines have had us and our language for 50 years, and it is required in schools; however, they develop their own version—in another 50 or less they may have a version of English as subtly different as Amer. is from British.

The Sunday night affair was at the Manila Press club. Small dinner in private dining room, a handsome big building. Passed the squatters on my way to breakfast—whiskey-box wall is Peter Dawson boxes—a whole wall of P. D. Dirty urchins everywhere, a music box (how cd it be a radio?) blaring within. Dunne says they have a squatter’s assoc., refuse to vacate to allow building on the sites—buildings of course that wd have nothing to do with housing them. Abt 45,000 families in M. live this way—since families are large, this may mean 250,000 people.

Dinner consisted mostly of journalists, though everybody “writes” here. They are quick to award the names here—even at the U.P., where I met some who cd be only undergrads, one and another wd be introduced as a “poet,” a “dramatist.” Remember, at such times, how I craved such identity at that age, and wd have relished it. Might have helped too. If people
say
you are a writer, then you begin to feel yrself to be one.

But, to the dinner. I have talked so much that the questions and answers are blurring from group to group—here I remember I was asked about what a writer’s “integrity” should consist of, much more talk about professional questions, etc. Rony Diaz, one of their better short story writers, was there but did not talk much. Woman writer—Alfon, just hauled into court by Holy Name Society and convicted of pornography—she is appealing it, but the Caths are all powerful. She was fined. Has 4 children—beautifully dressed and probably rich. When found out ages of my children (this interchange all in the ladies’ room) she said, “Oh writing is not difficult because of the children. It is the husbands who are difficult. I want to travel like you” … and she sighed.

Two gate-crashers had arrived at dinner—Nina Estroda Puyat, a beautiful woman (Chinese-Malay) whom Morales, on my right, whispered was a rich dilettante writer, and her escort, a Baron von Hagen, whom she introduced enthusiastically as having an interest in Lit., “and of course never had anything to do with Nazis.” He, at opp end of table from me, was my focus as I talked, cd not avoid sight of him—face screwed up toward a vanished monocle, twirling what looked to be a silver pencil on a chain, endlessly, somewhat after the manner of
The Caine Mutiny
’s Queeg. Asked a question or two in the English accent educated Germans used to have. He sells machinery. I wonder. Good-looking man, in the straight-backed, somewhat repellent way his type is.

I am getting extremely adept at repartee—always a game I have loved but try to restrain in normal society—fear this constant seeking of my “opinion,” the deference etc., is giving it far too free rein. Cd not help knowing that I was doing well. But for some good reasons too. Much talk—of the burning question here—shall they write in Eng. or Tagalog? Later in bed it occurred to me that the only answer I cd give was that the meaning must come first. It will depend on what audience they wish to address, also since every writer decides most such things for himself, it ought to be on an individual basis. But, they have romantic, Latin-revolutionary selves, like to travel in groups (also self-preservatory here, since they are not well known in the world) and think they can decide such things by ukase. Not likely to be so decided—or any literary matter. Alfon writes both ways, as she chooses. Said problem did not trouble her and I felt the others disapproved of her for this. Women are obviously the real individualists, the real revolutionaries, when once doing something apart from family circle.

On Monday I met late in afternoon, their “merienda” time, with a group in the “Listening-room” at the U.P. Recently set up, with mikes, phonograph, lounges, etc., for all-purpose meetings. “Fair Lady” Album was playing as I entered. Very lively discussion; the Pres. of the Club was a nice young man, eager to pin me down abt “ideologies”—didn’t literature have an obligation to portray man in a “social situation”?—etc. I won them over pretty quickly—me and my jokes—said that surely a social situation was a part of lit., being a part of life and inextricable from, but that writers of past had been writing in terms of “ideologies” without consciously carrying such imprint, all thru history. Delivered usual imprecations against writing from labels. Was asked, by one soft-voiced girl about “pornography.” Delivered usual imprec.—(without mentioning church)—about restrictions, censorship, serious art containing whole of life not being pornographic, etc.

These students, grads, yng faculty, etc., most of them, belong to U.P. Writer’s Club, which has published a review
The Literary Apprentice
for some 30 yrs. Showed me some back numbers. Very respectable job—better than some of ours, and remarkable, when one considers fact are writing in Eng. Poetry, however, (like Leonard Casper’s
Six Fil. Poets
collection) a court poetry of sensibility, love-moans, etc., mostly free verse—frequently can’t be sure whether an image which is odd comes from the intended violence to the language that a real poetic image achieves, or from a certain insecurity abt language. Was asked if, from whatever I knew of Fil. lit., I cd say what I thought wd develop from it. Said I knew little, but from sight of city—mentioned squatters, lightly—I wd think they wd have a lit. that treated of these problems and concerns—cd not see how they cd avoid.

Afterward went to a restaurant with a group, Dunne, Miss Moreno, and about 8 students, of whom the most noticeable were Rony Diaz and Christobal. They have read everything—more than I probably. Intense, vital young men. Diaz, who had applied for a Fulbright and failed. Quieter Christobal (who has been at most of my talks and asked insistently abt function of critic, plus slightly pointed and Anti-Amer. questions) is flashier, but very brilliant. We even got into such byways as Herbert Read—they know all of Bellow, Gold, and contemp Amer. (Later, in talking to Dunne and Morales, found that C. had been one of kids who picketed embassy during the Roe case—sailor of ours who killed a F. and was whisked away for home-trial instead of being tried here). One remembered remark (most of this group is anti-Cath): Adrian C. said, of my projected talk at the Ateneo de Manila—Jesuit College—“They will kill you with dogmatic kindness.”

Tuesday
, which was yesterday, went to embassy in morning to do the elaborate fiscal business necessary to being paid, and had the radio interview. Not nearly as good as in Japan. Interviewer read my dossier aloud—which had to be corrected as it was an ancient one—insisted on briefing me “I will ask you this, and then this … etc.” I tried to stop him twice—saying it wd be better if we did this cold, but he obviously cd not get away from his blueprint. Behind me the gals of the recording room engineers and staff, incl. McGill (former radio and crime-story writer, for Cavalcade of America) were watching. McGill runs the thing on routine lines, I fancy. Interview probably successful from Amer. viewpoint—he proceeded to ask me set questions and I to try to get away from “set,” but he went doggedly on. A dud, as far as I was concerned. Capistrano, Bill’s assistant, looked on sardonically—I think he understands.

Later to lunch as McG.’s guest, with Bill, at Overseas Press. Wonderful prawns again. Mrs. M. joined us, recognize her as rather drink-faced dame I had met at Barrio Fiesta. Their 15-yr-old son came in too, from American school—hamburgers, coke, and talk of school paper. (Me homesick for Pete.) They are all enjoying themselves here: as McG., who is nice, bluff type, said he found he was too old to try the TV rat-race; this is undoubtedly a fine haven.

Then to hotel for siesta before meeting with “Chip” Bohlen, our Ambassador. Naturally wanted to be in gd form for this—and naturally, of all times, fell asleep and awoke 2½ minutes before embassy driver was reported downstairs. Dressed in 5 minutes, but made it, feeling oddness that daytime sleep always brings—from Mars I come. Had some ten minutes or so talk with “unidentified escort,” probably Barnsley, head of USIS here, before I was invited in by Bohlen to handsome office with full view of harbor, Bataan and Corregidor in the distance.

Bohlen is a stopper. Pat of course knew him in Moscow, and had told me that to their minds, and many others, he was the top career man in our For. Service, the peer and better of most top men in other services. And of course, there was a loud outcry in the papers when Ike sent him here, a relatively minor post. He’s a linguist, knows Fr. perfectly, studied Rus. before it was necessary to, etc. Pat of course, had not mentioned his looks—sooperb. He has an air of authority without having an air of an air of—easy manner. Talked smoothly—not yet knowing of course that I wd have no trouble there. Discoursed on the Phil—obviously a trained and subtle observer. Broke ice by showing me a clip from one of their papers (when we were talking of their language troubles), said—hoped he wdn’t shock me—no, guess if I wrote for
The New Yorker
I was old enough to take.