Diary 12

I could not concentrate on the class lectures. Throughout the day, I wandered around on the halls of the university looking for anything unusual. I feared someone might be playing tricks on me -- What if someone in school found my hustling at nights and wanted to blackmail me? What if he reported me to the Dean? What if the police came here for questioning?

When nothing happened until the end of the day, I felt relieved. I tried to shrug off my apprehensions. Still, I kept asking myself -- This person I met the last two nights, who could he REALLY be? Was he the real Roberto Policarpio? Was he a ghost? Was he someone pretending as someone else? Was I dreaming? Am I in a right mental state?

When night approached, I phoned Rolando Magbanua. If there is anyone who could help me, it would be him.

"Hello," he greeted.

I lowered my voice to its lowest treble. "Guess." I've talked this way to him before over the phone.

"Oh hell, I have no time for this Antonio, " he sounded serious. "So what's up Antonio Salamanca, buddy?" Whenever he mentioned my complete name, it meant we need to talk like straight guys.

"My cock." I answered, giggling. I still could not imagine him a straight guy.

His voice tightened. He released his whispered threat. As usual...

"Antonio, I am sitting with my parents beside me. How many time do I need to remind you to screw that dirty faggot mouth of yours when it feels like talking ala faggot-y Xaviera Hollander while I am in my parents' house?

Excuse me, who is the more faggot between us, I thought.

And our codes were started.

"It is Truman Capote dear, calling Rock Hudson," I said, and I meant I wanted to talk gay talk.

His voice relaxed a bit. "It is Silvester Stallone who is about to see Madonna for a date." Meaning, forget it. Wait till he gets out of his house. He hung up while I burst laughing in the phone booth. Madonna by the way stands for Monokel, a gay bar.

It was evening again.

I heard the tolling of the bells- it was ten in the evening. I knelt on one of the church's pews. Instead of praying, my eyes surveyed the different saints around the church. The church smelt of burning candles, sampaguitas and sweat. The caretaker was unhooking the dried flowers neatly arranged under each frame of the fourteen stations of the cross. He looked at me. "We're closing," he said. I nodded and stepped outside.

In Quiapo, day is always different from night. One is transported to a different world. Even criminals, it seems, adhere to strict schedules. Pickpocketers and hold-uppers by day, murderers and prostitutes by night. Peddlers offer a root that could abort a baby in twenty seconds, another to produce a double-headed beast. Lights flash to different directions. Beside the four hundred year old church, palm readers, mind readers, magic peddlers, potion hawkers crowd the gates. Devotees have to push away beggars who clung to them. Quiapo has a holy reputation where people prayed for safety, not for their souls.

On my way out, a middle aged woman stopped me, pinned a Virgin Mother silver medallion on my sleeve.

"May the Virgin bless you," she offered. I thought it was very nice of her to do that.

"Thank you," I said.

She allowed me a few steps. "Wait," she called. "You owe me two pesos."

I turned around.

"What?"

"That medallion is worth two pesos," she emphasized.

I tore it away from me and threw it back to her. "Get lost."

She cussed. "You don't get blessings for free nowadays, Mister. May the heavens curse you."

I walked and finding a little corner beside a herbal counter, I took my pen and notebook and started to write notes. I usually do this to keep me getting violent from my anger.

I wrote: Quiapo oh beautiful Quiapo. You, the heart and soul of the city. It was in your bosom I learned the treacheries of life. On your streets, I walked with angels and Satan. I cursed and wished you doom. But I also loved you more than life itself. You swallowed my innocence and ignorance. The mask you wear now will one day be rolled back as another tapestry will cover your faceless face. Let me watch you sleep.

Midnight, still in Quiapo.

Ignoring my thesis work, my feet found their way inside the underpass now devoid of people. Isolation and darkness exhilarated me, it gave me the power of invincibility. My hormones and financial need were magnetizing me toward the Manila bay. But I resisted by avoiding the jeepneys. I had to lie low for a while. Wait... I'd see Roland. I rode a jeepney heading for Taft and alighted from it at Pedro Gil.

Walking the Pedro Gil street, I noticed in the dark, rats joined by strayed dogs, cats, and cockroaches having a feast above the slimy heaps of garbage, now uncollected for days. At least animals and insects are better fed in this city. I stopped.

I detest the hangouts of Roland but I had a curiosity to satisfy. The gay bar Monokel was not exactly the bar to go to if one had decent tastes but I found myself paying the entrance fee of ten pesos and embracing its foggy steam.

"Oh Truman darling Capote," Roland clasped my hands in wide smile. I could barely see and hear him because of the deafening sound system accompanying the naked male dancers on the platform. My mind was protesting this ultimate show of debauchery, with nothing but flesh around. "Now tell me how up your cock is." Roland said.

After ordering my beer, I did not waste time.

I raised my voice above the New Wave sound, "It is about commercial modeling."

"Ow," he said, he stared at me with a mocked surprise. As if saying don't even think about it, you slut. You're past that.

"I see." He raised both arms up. "Well, just look at me," he unzipped his luminescent jacket to reveal an inside shirt of monochromatic silk reflected by the bar's flashing lights. He paused, pirouetted, posed and held his head like expecting to be in the cover of Vogue. I didn't want to be tortured anymore.

"I believe you know some models in the field."

Realizing I was not intending to join the world of commercial modeling, he relaxed.

"Of course, dahleen," he lifted his glass, took drink, and brought it down on the table. "Why this sudden interest?"

It was easy for me to invent an impromptu alibi; this is my my expertise, I am a hustler make no mistake. "A friend of mine is intending to hire some for a commercial art."

"Or sex," he said giggling like a coquettish girl.

"Roland stop it," I blushed, annoyed.

He laughed louder. "Look at us Truman," he went on, "Why is it easy for us to exchange roles? Over the phone you were too brave to play your true self, why so careful here? Drop you fucking mask here. Enjoy. Open up."

"Roland, just show me what your fucking hole of a brain knows about commercial modeling and I will leave you in peace alright," I said irritably. Truth was, with the loud music and naked boys and Roland posing in front of me like this, I couldn't stand another second and was ready to jump out into the streets outside.

He made me pay back for what I did to him at his home. He prolonged my agony. "Wait sweetheart. You don't expect me recall names and expound their talents while watching lovely naked boys, do you?"

"O shit, Roland, you know I hate this place." I prepared to leave.

"Well, I'll give you a name."

I stared at him and listened intently. "What name?"

"Arnie Te."

"Where does he live?"

He released his coquettish laughter again ,"If you are that good over the phone, you will have no problem using the directory."

"Okay, okay," I shouted as I pushed the door open on the way out.

In leaving I heard his parting words. "Oh my oh my, when will you ever be proud of your femininity Antonio Salamanca?"

Alex Maskara