Diary 19

It took me a few days to recover from this whirlwind of visions. Regardless of what I saw one thing was sure: I possessed Roberto Policarpio's keys and diaries.

I returned to his abandoned apartment many many times afterwards to clear it of dust and sweep the floor of its clutter, to rid the apartment of all things inside, I cannot explain why I did it, but after all the nights I spent being with him, I began to think he was my only best friend. I no longer cared if he was a ghost, a figment of imagination or a hallucination. Roberto Policarpio was someone I began to love. But how do you love someone who died? There was a desire in me to embrace his memory and tuck it in my heart. I found myself sweeping and gathering the emotions he left behind, his solitary figure seated on the table while studying medical textbooks, his aura and body heat while practicing martial arts. I felt sweeping and gathering the dreams he dreamt while staring out the window and the gasps of slumber that accompanied his isolation. In gathering the dust in a pan and throwing them in my big plastic garbage bag, I shuddered at the thought of a garbage truck picking these memories and burning them in the Smokey mountains of Tondo. I could not let these go. I gathered all his things in his room, even the plastic bag containing garbage and brought these to my hiding place. As souvenirs, I guess.

Alone in my boarding house, I stared at his diaries without reading their contents; I scrutinized them for tracings he could have left. I looked for symbols on their margins; I searched for telephone numbers written on edges of pages or drawings of hidden messages; I even looked for marks of tears. I eagerly leafed through their pages for something as stupid as a dried petal or a flower, maybe a poem. Yeah, I was developing this romantic notions about the diaries he left behind. In the days that followed, I walked the halls of Manila University Hospital listening, spying, wandering about, hoping to hear something about him. I was hoping a mention of his name. I was hoping written messages posted on bulletin boards for him or about him. Nothing.

At nights, before going home to the boarding house, I took one of his diaries to the bay to read , but I failed to understand the meanings of his entries, my attention was occupied by my imagination of him sitting beside me, or him bidding me in the dark room of Manila where I watched a screen of his murders. I swear I could hear him giggling.

Still, I kept my eyes glued to his words. I went on, reading until the words became alive in my heart. In the days that followed, his stories became sadder, there was tragedy after tragedy. I could bear this no more. I would die of sorrow.

Two nights later, the notebooks were just half-read. I missed him. I walked along the Bay to search for his apparition, to my disappointment. I had no more money or food left, I missed my baths, I began ignoring my clothes, I was beginning to smell. I did not care about life anymore.

In the rubble of Intramuros, the Old Walled City of Manila, I met a man who was as dirty as a church mouse. His face was so gentle I was persuaded to talk with him. He said he came from Bohol and finding no place in the city, he decided to settle in a secluded grassy area, close to the Comelec building. Intramuros was a remnant of old Spanish wall that used to keep the indios and Chinese at Bay. Today, hidden behind the rubble are broken-down Spanish villas interspersed on a golf course. The man I met had built a makeshift tent which he said was always being torn apart by the police every night. He kept re-setting it up again the following day. In his hideaway, I saw three or four people with similar plights.

"At nights," Ben told me, (his name was Ben) "we roam around Manila Bay and Luneta. We are being picked up by all sorts of people. We are too ready to do anything to survive."

"Why do you take this? Can't you return back home?"

He shook his head. "Why should I?" he said, lying on the grass that smelled of urine. "My parents wanted me to become a priest. Either priesthood or marriage. I couldn't muster any courage to tell them that I want to be an actor."

"You'd rather live this way than tell them that?"

"If God were human," he said, "why did He give me parents who'd sacrifice their son's only life for something he doesn't want?"

"But you wouldn't even tell them?"

"I'm afraid to disappoint them. I'm scared. Hey, won't you buy me coffee?"

You did not fucking tell them. You're afraid.

Fear.

Fear.

Fear.

Fear was the word that woke me up from my stupor. After two nights, I realized I was very stupid. It was all out of fear that we humans commit our lives to sufferings. It was fear that made me refuse to face the truth surrounding the death of Roberto Poliarpio and his diaries. Fear was what Manila uses in controlling the lives of her people; the same fear that pushes everyone to wear different masks, to play in masquerade. It was all fear that made all the psychopaths, neurotics, pedophiles, criminals, atheists, prostitutes in this city. It was all fear.

Things became pitch black. I saw Roberto rising out of his white Toyota. He took my hand. We were again inside the room, my parents were present. Pictures, the old mementos were hanging on the wall, my mother and father sat quietly on the floor, my mother's hair tied in a ponytail. Mother? I called. She was dead, her eyes wide opened, my father's face was smashed into bits and pieces, blood was dripping from his mouth. This is what these men did to your parents, Roberto said. I screamed. He pulled me towards his old apartment, we climbed the creaking stairs. When we reached the top, everything turned into a movie screen. Not again, I uttered, but Roberto did not hear me anymore. He knocked on the man's door. I recognized the man as his old neighbor. When his face peeked out of the door, Roberto threw a plastic cup on his face. The man's face became red, and suddenly boiling. What's going on? I tried feeling my hands, my body. At the corner of my eye, I saw a light that turned bigger and more circular. A heavy pressure squeezed my chest. The light became a golden splendor, with interspersed lines of brightness. In that light I saw the Lady of Manila Bay. The Goddess of Many Myths. She smiled at me, then floated in the air before soaring high. I swirled like I was in the center of a hurricane. I tried to laugh but I heard nothing. I became unconscious.

I was awakened by the policeman who found me lying on the grass. He was nudging me with his shoe. Hey boy, don't you see the sign? He pointed at the Keep off the grass sign. Fear came upon me again.

I walked away from him, I jumped into one of the passing jeepneys. What day was it? Was it Thursday? Friday? Shit, I have totally lost thought of my college thesis.

Alex Maskara