Diary 11

Ah, that carton box, the container of my life, the only witness of my struggles. I t was marked Marigold Condensed Milk, this side UP on one side, this side DOWN on the opposite. It was obtained by my mother from a sari-sari store, to keep the family mementos. Her mementos included an Old photograph of her after finishing elementary school, her pretty face had a mole on the side of nose that made her oriental eyes more exotic. Her curly hair and, her petite body that was sitting on a chair made her look like a baby. "My picture at ten," she beamed.. "After the war, in the fifties, I stowed away to Manila and was hired as a candy maker in one Chinese factory. The owner took a liking of me and paraded me as Queen in the annual Chinese Parade."

There was also a picture of my father, wearing a white tuxedo, standing tall and elegant; he had a Caucasian nose and wide brown eyes; he wore a moustache, had thin lips, unblemished white skin, very Spanish, always smiling. My father born out of wedlock, his father remained unknown to him, though it was rumored his father was a soldier during World War Two. American? My father died without knowing who his father was. After Death March, my father's mother became a comfort lady to the Japanese.

There was my parents' wedding picture, now faded after it got wet during typhoon Dading. There was a picture of me as a toddler; a picture of my baby brother's baptism. We were always together as babies - my brother and I. Together. I would always remember my parents as young, beautiful. I would always remember my brother as a baby.

Ah, that carton box, it was the only thing I owned. It was my pillow when I slept in the parks, I carried it around Manila in search of a new life. There were many things I did not tell Roberto Policarpio. My grandparents on my mother side died poor because the landowner of the land they tilled , also the town's mayor thought them to be too old to be useful in his farms. He took their tenancy rights.

They lost our home, they got sick and died within weeks of each other. No one bothered to help me. I could not afford to bury them decently. It was a season of hunger and starvation. I did not tell Roberto how I buried them : I wrapped them in blankets, threw them in the river. Afterwards, I ran away, promising never to return to barrio Concepcion. I did not tell him how I spent my first months in the streets of Manila. I sold drugs. One day the police raided my hang-out in Ortigas, the monsoon rains were heavy, I had no place to hide. I ended in Paco cemetery. I found a big rock and hit a tomb's wall until an opening was made so I could enter it. I swept aside the bones and decomposed coffin to one corner of the tomb; for days, 1 stayed in the dark place. When I came out, I was a new man. I became a hustler. .. Damn my landlady, she better return my box ....

8:30 a.m.

I climbed the steps leading to Manila Public Library. Its lobby exhibited photographs of China's development. On these photographs, people were standing under metallic skeletons in the middle of rocky terrain, wearing straw hats and black cotton overalls with boring uniformity. Captioned as precursors of industrialization, these skeletons would be the future of modern China. I lingered for a while until the main door opened. I went inside the General Section Area, its librarian was by now upset because of the raucous crowd gathering around her. I took another three flight of steps leading to Research Area and finding it empty and quiet, I occupied one of its tables, opened a Filipiniana book and began reading. I could not read beyond the first line. My mind was wondering about the whole events that happened last night and that morning. I was beset by frightening thoughts, what if... what if it were a murder? What if the police came to me for questioning? What would I say - that I, Antonio Salamanca, a hustler of Manila Bay met with Roberto Policarpio? If that would ever occur, I would definitely be expelled from my Catholic University and all my years of toil would go nil.

I closed the book and began pacing around my table. Good thing no one else was in the research area. It was too early. To occupy my mind, I proceeded to Old Historical Periodicals which was adjacent to Research Area to browse old magazines; while doing this, I noticed a rack of today's tabloids hanging close to the entryway. Taking a copy, I read the Drowning story.

MAN GETS DROWNED IN MANILA BAY

(Latiba January 6, 198-)

A fisherman reported a floating body in Manila Bay earlier today. The body is bloated beyond recognition. No identification can be found. The man is six-foot in height, approximately one hundred eighty five pounds and somewhere between twenty to twenty one years old. Based on the preliminary findings of Luneta Police, the body could have been dead for two days. Lt. Procorpio Soledad ruled out foul play but "Suicide is very, very probable," he announced.

No matter how I'd look at the black and white photo accompanying the news item I was sure it was the man I just met in Manila Bay. If he were dead for two days now, fuck, who the hell did I speak to, his ghost?

Getting paranoid, I placed back the tabloid on its rack and hid between two giant shelves and continued browsing through magazines. I took a stack of Liwayway Comics in search of Tagalog novels, these would be my thesis - The Development of the Tagalog Novels. I wiped out layers of dusts and cobwebs in turning their pages. My concentration got more focused. In no time, I was immersed in my readings despite the heat in the library. I read the works of earlier Tagalog Liwayway novelists - love stories that seemed to follow a single plot - Rich boy elopes with Poor girl. The family of Rich boy does not accept Poor girl. Poor girl either gets pregnant and goes through horrendous martyrdom and suffering until Rich boy's family realizes her noble love for their son. But too late, Poor girl is dying. Or too late, Poor girl is now a famous Star of X-rated films. Or Poor girl finds another love with a Richer older boy with wonderful family background. So the Rich boy ends up in frustration and with drugs, commits suicide, or marries a Rich Bitchy Girl. In the end, the family of Rich boy repents. Moral lesson? Don't be a Poor girl.

On one magazine, I discovered exactly the face I was trying to avoid. Printed on an advertisement section, Roberto Policarpio was holding a Cool Cola drink with written expression - Aaah, refreshing cola. My old fears were resurrected... whatever I encountered last night was not about to give up on me.

I closed the comics promising myself that never again would I return back to Manila Bay, half-convincing myself

8:45 p.m.

Caloocan City. I needed to lie low. In this city, anything could happen especially to someone like me, a hustler that could easily be pawned and reasonably suspected as a killer. The suicide motive at present would at least take me out of the picture. But it was still safe to remain silent. -

I decided to spend the night at Artemio Sandoval's house.

I alighted from Light Railway Transit. Passing through Goking Mall, I made quick descent towards Fifth Avenue. On my right was a third-run theater featuring the famous star Shiok Tong opposite Ku Ling in the Battle of Empires, a tragic love story employing a lot of Karate chops. I turned right at Fifth and was met by rowdy half-naked kids being thrown out of an eatery. They were passing dead fish among themselves like a football team. Still running, they hid behind the garbage bin not far from the eatery, collected discarded coals and grilled the fish. I passed by them. "Hey mister," one shouted at me, ""Would you give us money for rice?" He sounded like I was about to join their small feast. I pulled out a fifty centavo coin from my pocket and tossed it. "More!" they chorused. I ignored them. Moving on, I passed through a series of small tables selling old cassettes, cheap jewelry, belts, lighters, used books, snacks out of fish and chicken entrails, grilled chicken, rice soup. Walking further, a bar carrying the sign, A-go-go, on its door paraded scantily clad girls pleading me to go inside.

And then, this whole scene stopped.

At the gate of Santo Rosario Village Caloocan, there stood amidst a series of gardens and well trimmed terrain a guardhouse occupied by M 16 rifle- toting security man. Vintage cars were parked elegantly in front of mansions, the place appeared foreign to me, after walking through the Fifth Avenue. Thick brick walls separated it from the world outside. I tipped my head to the guard who eyed me with killer's caution. "Where to?" he asked. I mentioned the name of Artemio, my thesis partner. "Phone?", he asked. I gave it. He picked up the phone, mumbled my name and uttered phone niceties, when he replaced the receiver, he looked at me again with a wide smile, suddenly friendly. "You can go ahead, Artemio is expecting you."

Walking towards Artemio's house, I could hear someone playing violin. Young people were relaxing with glasses of wine around their pools, surrounded by maids in black uniforms and an additional contingent of gun-wielding bodyguards. I'd never seen so many bodyguards and maids in my life. I was a bit anxious travelling in Caloocan at nights because of the much publicized crime there. NPA's were killing security guards, kidnapping children of millionaires. News media were blaming the increasing Communist infestation of the area. Politicians were claiming that Caloocan was just plain Caloocan - where depressed people, mostly migrants from the north live below poverty- eking a living out of murders and crimes. I sighed with great relief when I stood intact and unharmed in front of Artemio's residence.

There were other reasons why I needed to spend the night with Artemio. It was not as if we liked each others, our Lit professor determined our thesis partnership. Since I would spend a lot of time with him, I had to formally introduce myself to his family. Rich families were not that trusting. They choose their children's friends. I did not want them to call the police every time I visited or called.

But I became apprehensive to enter his house when I heard laughter mingling with the clanging of spoons, forks, glasses and plates. Damn, so the party is not over yet. The day I told Artemio about my visit to work on the thesis, he told me to come early so I could join his granny's party. I said, whoa - What would I do in a Geriatric Party? Dance Charleston?

Artemio belonged to one of the wealthiest and most elite families of Caloocan, thank God he did not reject me after we were chosen to become thesis partners.

I had forgotten that Filipinos have a different concept of time at parties. Everything HAS to be late. The party was just starting when I barged in. I froze in front of social matrons who were just beginning to display their gowns to one another. And I was in my stupid jogging pants and haven't taken a shower for days.

Artemio hastily pulled me close to the dining banquet. "Eat man, there is a lot of food for everyone. We'll talk about the thesis afterwards." The old folks have a way of hiding disgust.

They all resumed their discussion like I was not even there. I felt like a fish jumping out of a frying fan. I surveyed the house. Eighteenth century paintings from Europe and America covered the walls. Antique Chinese vases stood mightily in corners, a Swiss grandfather's clock was layered with gold, the narra stairway leading up was sculpted mahogany, lighting was strategically positioned leaving an ambiance of... Spain.

I did not waste time in prodding Artemio to his study room to start our thesis. "I thought the party is over," I said in laying down my knapsack.

Artemio sat on his chair trying to hide his amusement. "So it's not… What is the big deal about that?" He was half drunk. "Artemio Sandoval, aren't you ashamed to allow me here?" I said, still mulling my embarrassment.

"Why?"

"I'm not properly attired."

"What for... you're worried about these people?" he burst out laughing.

"It's not really funny."

"You are self conscious because your clothes don't fit? Man I'm getting worried about you."

I felt being taunted by this man of short stature, less than five feet in height, more like a boy than a man. A while back he pointed to his girlfriend among the party crowd. She was tall, her long hair reached down to her waist, she looked Chinese, with perfect skin, she waved at me. How could a beautiful woman love a short man with dark skin and fat belly and talked in high-pitched voice? I remembered Liza Minelli in Cabaret - money makes the world go round.

"Of course I am." In gatherings like these, I prefer to be low keyed to avoid attention. Anyone familiar with Manila flesh trade who happened to be present could easily recognize me. I am a hooker in Manila Bay and there was just with a dead person last night for chrissakes!

He brought down his San Miguel beer on the table. Looking straight into my eyes, he began mumbling sentences half of which I did not comprehend. He was very drunk. "These people are worse than you are, Antonio Salamanca. I've seen them hold this party once every year since the day I was born, since oh God, I've recognized a human face. For the rest of the days of the year, they'd come here crying out problems, borrowing money, pawning jewels, losing jobs, separating. I mean, I see them playing mahjong every fucking day. And when occasions like these are celebrated," he peeked through the door left ajar. "Come," he bid me watch the party with him. "They attend this party to prove that one is better than the other." His cackles made me very uncomfortable.

I pulled on my university slacks, it was good I brought them since I was planning to get directly to school after sleeping here. I would borrow money from him before I leave tomorrow.

I began talking about our thesis but I could not squeeze anything from the drunk son of a bitch, we ended up drinking the whole night much to the disgust of his mother. We went to the roof of their house and began shouting obscenities. From the roof I saw the vast expanse of Caloocan - the glittering lights and the restless figures of people that moved like zombies in the streets outside the village. They seemed very, very far.

"Don't worry about my Mom," he assured me.

When the sun came up the following day, we were still there on the roof , I was too drunk while Artemio was sleeping in his own vomit.

Before I left, I didn't forget one thing. "Can I borrow a hundred bucks?" I asked him. Still tipsy from last night's spree, he lent me two hundred pesos.

Alex Maskara