Diary 24

THE TEMPTATION



I passed by the beauty parlor of Mig. His head was sticking out of his door. He called me. "Roby, I have cooked adobo tonight, come over and have dinner with me."

This invitation was very tempting. I was hungry. But I knew what the invitation was all about - I've heard jokes, mainly from among the boarders who made fun of those who went inside Mig's apartment. He fed them alright, they joked, and he ate their dicks too afterwards. In Manila, moral values like sleeping with someone for money had been reduced into a joke. Topics or events that would have been shocking before were no longer shocking. Especially among many Provincianos like me. Here we were, standing penniless in a penniless city. We did odd jobs. We sold our souls and bodies. We were hired by syndicates. We were used by some lunatic politicians and businessmen and even military officers for their criminal ends. It made us numb. We moved as if every step our legs took was for another challenge to hurdle. This hurdle, unfortunately, was something we could not define. But there was romance in the idea of struggling in Manila. Manila was the testing ground. Anyone who survived it, especially a small town boy like me, would make it anywhere in the world.

I paused to mull the invitation offered me by Migs. Why not take this one chance and sleep with him? Maybe a whole new world would open up. Besides, in this city where corruption was the only honest thing to do, people would not know the difference.

But I brushed the idea aside. "I've just been to the cafeteria at school. Thanks anyway." I lied to Migs. I smiled and forced my way among the toddlers scattered on the hallways. Their mothers were huddled around the only faucet pouring scanty water in the so-called laundry room. They diligently washed diapers made out of flour sacks and faded clothes. I paused again, really tempted to turn back. "Just once, perhaps? I argued with myself. But I closed my eyes, I could not drop my Christian values. What was good in giving in if I died of guilt afterwards?

I opened my door to be welcomed by scampering pesky companions; I walked to the wooden food cabinet to prepare Ramen Chinese noodles. To my disgust, the packets bore holes, the hole margins bore the marks of rodent teeth. The contents were rotten, unspared by these devilish creatures.

I sat on my single mattress, stroked my tremulous legs, fatigued by hours of solitary walks and prayed to God, then fell asleep.

The following morning at school, Thea, who thought she was God's gift to mankind, got me mad again. Would she ever stop?

Thea was one of the symbols of Decade 80's in Manila. Rich, full hair, mestiza. The trouble was, she was petite; and she was kind'a short. Being short was not a bad attribute per se - but in the case of Thea - it was. Let me tell you why.

Manila in the 80's was agog over beauty contests. I mean, there were all types of beauty contests to promote one's physical attributes which could be alright if the attributes met standards. To make my point clearer, the Filipino beauty queen aspirant in Manila was no different from the Filipino sportsman who dreamt and worked so damn hard to win an Olympic basketball medal. Unfortunately, he stood below six feet.

And Thea, the beauty contestant, stood below five feet.

It was one of those things that pissed me in the city. The misplaced desires, unrealistic aspirations, wasted energy and time to achieve something folk knew damn well they wont achieve. I still believe the Filipina should work hard for serious studies instead of beauty contests. And the Filipino sportsman should work hard toward soccer, tennis, baseball instead of stupid basketball.

The Filipino in Manila in effect was like the city itself, always thinking about a past glory and beauty that was never replicated, why, because the past was smacked with imperialists. There were taller and more Caucasian beauties in the Philippines in the past because it was ruled by Caucasians and taller men.

Manila never got over her past. The populace still lived as if the country were ruled by the Westerners - always admiring any Filipino that resembled a Westerner; still believing that basketball, a game of taller men was meant for Filipinos even if they had to import tall players from foreign lands. And this, this was precisely the culprit and the root cause of Manila problems. The city was no different from an old landed and rich man who lost it all; and instead of rising up and re-assessing his life; instead of planning and accepting the realities of life, he sat in a little corner and kept debating with himself as to why things happened the way they did. To correct them, he relied on the crumbs given him by his former rulers. He looked at his neighbors and saw how they got over their own past and made something out of themselves and in seeing how they succeeded and how he failed he returned back to his corner and debated with himself how bad he really turned out to be -- all this time, he wasted precious time that could have improved his lot. He became rude and sentimental; he lost all his pride; he was full of self-pity; he was full of internal conflict. He got poorer. The poorer he got the more depressed he became. It was a dangerous cycle.

And the university classroom was the best example of this disturbing culture.

So she appeared in the class, this petite Thea Valenzuela, this pride of Manila in the 80's due to her half-Caucasian/half-Native looks - so sure of her elegance and beauty that she looked funny. I am not saying she was ugly - she just wouldn't make it to the cut of gorgeous and 'a face that could launch a thousand ships' beauty. And I certainly hated her.

In our Chemistry class, she took her seat right beside me. It appeared deliberate. Plopping on her chair, she complained, "My God, I haven't slept yet."

I could not figure out why these rich-y classmates preferred to come to class with wet hair. I'm sure they could afford hair-dryers. And having wet hair in this summer in the university was hell. There was poor air-ventilation. There was one ceiling fan which was as old as World War Two. Someone opened the windows and allowed hot air, flies and smoky dust belching from passing vehicles inside. I could not figure out why someone would come to class with wet hair in a classroom like this.

I was reading my Chemistry book. She directed her eyes to me. My silence seemed to disappoint her. Leaning back on her chair with arms and legs crossed, she swung her wet hair again until droplets fell on the Chemistry book I was reading.

Still I kept quiet to avoid a scene. Eyeing me, she went on with her monologue. "It is hard to be a model you know. Always naked and pressed for time. I mean, gosh, those catwalks make me limp. I even got no time to blow dry my hair."

Thinking of her height and her thick legs made me want to laugh but I controlled myself.

I bet you did, I thought without stirring. I couldn't figure out how to react to her. Was she expecting me to listen to her cheap sleazy modeling stints and fall on my knees to worship her? My eyes watched the droplets form lumps on the white pages of my book eventually absorbed leaving traces of brown circles. Whatever she felt about her lousy night, I could not do anything about that.

She kept on looking at me. It was distressing to smell liquor from her breath.

"Are you listening to me or pretending deaf?" she addressed me irritably.

Oh boy, she just wouldn't stop. I raised my voice and snapped back. "Are you talking to me?"

She shook her hair once more pelting me with more droplets. I looked at her mini, labeled Moreno.

"Amazing, you have a voice," she said mockingly.

As if she stimulated the whole class, someone whispered behind me. "Hey Roberto, talk." As if I had no voice all along. What was wrong with being quiet?Girls in my class talked nothing but Vouge and Hollywood stars, boys talked of motors, engines and Playboy centerfolds. And this spoiled brat . . .

Unsuccessful in getting my attention, Thea struck a conversation with a seat mate behind her.

"I don't know how these people end up in this university. They have poor academic backgrounds, cannot talk properly, cannot dress right, they are destroying the image of Manila."

"Do you remember Nina," the other Manilena said,"Nina from Zamboanga, she had a nervous breakdown."

"You mean the one who failed the last exam? They just won't make it. It is better for them to stay where they come from."

I could not stand it any longer. I closed my book. I looked at them, "Will you two shut up? Puta!" It felt good to cuss. Mikael Sarmiento, one of my classmates, pulled me away as I was about to punch their faces. I screamed at the top of my voice. "So what if I came from the province? You stupid worthless shit of Manila! Just look at the city you live in and tell me about your sophistication! You step on people like me like stepping on lifeless rocks. Is this what you call Manila attitude? I'll show you what attitude is."

The problem with me was my explosive nature. I just wanted to beat them up.

After this event, my classmates dismissed me as dead meat. "You never talk back at Thea," they whispered among themselves.

Later on, a gossiper explained Thea's nasty mood toward me that morning.

"She was upstaged by a provincial lass in last night's Manila Pavilion Fashion Show. Imagine," the gossiper continued, "our beloved Thea who stood there like a Miss Universe was overlooked by an American talent scout who was searching for a Filipina model to work in New York. He pointed his finger toward the direction of Thea, "You made the cut," he said. "Come with me to New York."

Beaming, our Thea stepped forward, about to give her victory walk like fucking Miss America when the American shook his head and in a thunderous voice said, "Not you, I want the girl behind you." Que horror, mi Madre.

"The American was surprised why he was asked by the US consul to leave the country early the following day. Without the provincial model lass. He didn't know Thea's family connections"...

This, unfortunately was another Filipino poison in his culture. The culture of connections. The culture of getting things done or undone because of the power of connections. Of shutting one's mouth or else the connections will. You cannot do business in the Philippines without the right connections. You will run for any position successfully with the connections. You can commit a crime and get scot-free with the right connections. You don't want to mess up anyone with good family connections. You want to worhip someone with right connections.

What is this Philippine " the right connections" culture? It is an invisible power, a creature of the devil himself. It is the root and the fruit of everything bad about Manila. It is the grandmother of all mediocrity; the source of anger and defiance; the mother of failure. Connections is capable of making mediocrity excellent, and excellence mediocre. It is that power that provides criminals security blanket giving them freedom to inflict suffering to many.

You wrote a stupid novel? It will be published and proclaimed great through connections.

You have an ugly face? You will be pretty with connections.

You murdered someone? All you need are right connections and you'd never see a jail.

You wanna export your inferior product? It will be sold regardless of its quality with the right connections.

So with that kind of culture, the Filipino had never seen a quality life. There never was an impetus to grow and progress especially among those bereft of connections. Like me.

After my incident with Thea, I entertained the idea of disappearing in the mountains, to join the rebels, but what would I gain from that? How many rebels have done that and were salvaged by the powerful? To run away would just elevate her power. Let her kill me, I thought, let her show her heartlessness. All of them, were the same.

Instead of fearing, I fantasized. My imagination was getting the better of me nowadays. In my daydreams, I'd punch Thea's face a dozen times, tell her to get off my face. She'd run to her father who was a long time crony of Marcos. Just in time he'd hired the goons to kill me, I'd turn into the lost son of some rich asshole somewhere.

But it was all imagination. In hunger, I'd dream of plates upon plates of sinigang and adobo, of rice and corn, of hamburgers and cheese burgers, Kentucky Fried Chicken, all I gobbled to death. I'd dream of driving a sports car with my aristocratic friends. At nights, I would stop in front of the Metallic Disco, to watch the likes of Thea get off cars, and with a flick of a finger, be allowed in the disco, while I, hidden behind the trees, dreamed of dancing, just like John Travolta.

This incident with Thea turned out to be the turning point of my life in Manila.

As I climbed the steps leading to my boarding room, I was agitated and somewhat frightened. I was contemplating leaving the city for good, to where, I did not know. Until Mig stuck out his head from his parlor inviting me to dinner. I went in. I told myself - "I will not automatically end on his bed right?"

Talking of an ego booster! Mig in his Visayan accent built me up, told me up-front what the others had been whispering among themselves. "You look good," he said. I was tall for a Filipino: at six foot one, with a good body frame despite my poverty and constant hunger. My father was part Portuguese. "I love your legs," Mig giggled. I blushed. Could men possess good- looking legs?

He made a proposition that changed my life. "If you will stick with me, I will highlight you handsome looks. Once you bloom, I will peg you against the best male models in the country. I will join you in the Look of the Year Search for Male Model."

"Look of the Year? Is this a joke? You want me to turn into something like some Miss Philippine's contestant? Another fucking beauty contest which is the fad of a stupid city?"

" Oh stop, Roberto. This is a contest for Filipino males."

This made me laugh. But heck, anything was okay now even if I had to join Miss Doggy Pageant. My ideals could go for now. I was hungry.

Mig nimbly snipped my hair with his scissors while discussing his plans.

"I will transform you. I have been spotting you since you came into this place. I can tell a good-looking guy when I see one. Look at that face," he leaned forward and positioned his face beside mine as we stared at the mirror. " How much do you weigh?"

I was tongue tied. I never really checked my weight before, since I always starved, I'm sure I'm underweight. Oh tell me about all these measurements. Never really had any knowledge. One time I went to a department store to buy Jock's underwear. "Size?" the saleslady asked. For someone like me used to homemade underwear, I was embarrassed not to know. I said, "Eight inches." She called Security.

Mig ran his finger to the mirror, tracing the boundaries of my face, "That face, it expresses a wide gamut of emotions; your bones, so prominent, your skin, so ethnic. After I fix you, all fashion designers will get crazy about you. They will ask me - Where have you hidden that son of a bitch, you faggot. I can see their faces red with envy. Your skin, so smooth; your almond-shaped eyes, my God, I've never seen you this close before. You're like an angel."

"Snap out of it," I smiled. "You've made your point. I don't care what your planning out for me, but I'm really looking for a job. Is this thing legit? Is it a job?"

"Of course, darling." He ran his hands over my shoulders. "These shoulders are just exactly. the way Armani wanted them. You'll put Richard Gere to shame."

I slept with him that night. And I felt nothing.

I was indifferent to the sin I've committed despite my fear of God. Perhaps the act provided a light at the end of my tunnel. Mig offered me hope in the future that I could look forward to. It was an assurance, an escape, security. He gave me a fighting chance. Yes, I preferred this than be constantly humiliated by Thea and the likes of her in Manila. And I had to play the only game in town, their game, than return back to my province and do nothing. I' try anything to keep myself afloat, whatever the cost.

The weeks that followed were relatively satisfying. Mig literally took charge of all my meals, gave me money, I never slept with him again. Thankfully he never asked. He became my new mentor, and I, his new business enterprise. He was motivated to win, I was motivated to survive and stay in Manila. Finally, an entirely new world cracked open before me.



MIKAEL SARMIENTO



I heard Thea went to Hongkong to model and shop - I didn't care. For a while I was safe from her vicious insults.

In her absence, I became friends with Mikael Sarmiento. He was the one who pulled me away from Thea when I was about to strike her. Mikael and I ended as partners in Zoology lab. His family was one of the wealthiest in Manila but this did not get into his head, thank God. He was however a perfectionist just like his father. He could not tolerate anything that didn't fit into his view of the world. I could live with that. He was immune if not above the class segreggations of the university, secured in a most neutral corner, he was a full time chancelor of The Catholic Action Movement.

He was rich but comfortable with the poor, inteligent but patinet with ignorance, unaffected but sympathetic. What other friend would I look for?

With Thea being gone for two weeks, I found my voice gain confidence. Mikael stripped me of shyness, he ignored my heavy accent, liberated my secret fears and ideas. Even when I argued with him, I felt open with him, without fear of retribution.

He confided to me one day, "The reason you are being taunted by the likes of Thea everyday, and believe me - I disapprove of that - I've privately reprimanded her many times... is that something about you, it's mysterious and strange. No one really knows who you are. You linger in this city alone and vulnerable, an easy target. Who are you really, Roberto Policarpio?"

"Your question is not necessary," I said. I did not have the frankness to tell him about my crazy mother and tubercular father.

Mikael took my evasiveness as a challenge, his nature was that of a practical, perfectionist man. But I challenged him by elevating our conversation from mundane to spiritual and metaphysical. He was deeply devout.

"Tell me you perception in life." he said.

"I want to look at things simplistically, I believe in God."

"I am listening, go on."

"Unlike you Mikael, I dream. I tend to shut off reality. I gravitate toward beauty and harmony."

"Why?"

"Because... because there is so much pain going on in this world. Dreaming seems to me the only way to survive."

He burst into laughter, not a condescending laughter, it was empathic. I liked that.

"Wait till you go to Advanced Physics," he said. I did not really understand him at that time.

We did not talk about these anymore as we focused on our specimens in Comparative Anatomy.

As days went by, our partnership improved my academic performance. We worked rigorously among the skeletons of turtles, sharks and fish. He patiently guided me through the Latin and Greek terms of Physiology and Anatomy. We moved from Zoology to Botany to Physics to Chemistry to Calculus to Humanities, with him, everything made sense.

In two weeks, my grades got better. Mikael introduced me to his family and I became a "regular" guest in his house. With my academic background, under the pressure of scholarship, we toiled night and day chewing, grinding and swallowing ideas in his study room.



Alex Maskara