Diary 27

I walked and floated, dreamed of a far away garden. What was all this anyway, this little ramp where I strutted myself to sell clothes and body? I hardly remembered its color but my eyes were mesmerized by the light that surrounded it, light that was also focused on me. It made me feel walking into a tunnel. The tunnel was a hideous place, like the tunnels I visited in Intramuros that were built to stand bombs. Those tunnels were so cold and their bellies seemed to swallow you dead. Like catacombs. And then they whispered to me that during Spanish Times, Filipinos were left to die there. They were tied up inside these tunnels until high tide raised the water level of Pasig River, overflowing to the insides of the tunnels, drowning the Filipino prisoners. And they whispered to me that during Japanese Occupation, 600 Filipino and American prisoners of Bataan Death March were huddled there, tied up in a space that could hold only twenty people, 600 of them slept, peed, defecated while standing. All of them died. The walls of the tunnels whispered to me of time passed, but I refused to listen, because my past, like the Philippines past, is painful. Those tunnels were here again. They were no different from the audience watching me walk on this stupid catwalk; they were whispering some truths about this country. They were whispering my doom, inviting me to play with the games of Manila; they were swallowing me whole in this city, forcing me inside its belly, to feed it.

But, I vowed not to stare back at my past. I have treated my past a mistake, and being young and on the verge of success, I would not let anything to get in my way. What I thought while I was walking on the ramp was my survival in a city that rarely offered great opportunity. It was model's walk towards more money, better lodging, abundant food. Who would not give anything for those in Manila?

On that night I promised myself to abandon the mistakes of my parents and barrio folks. Vengeance was in my mind. "I'd show them", I said to myself with anger . . . the face of Thea flashed before me, adding flame to my anger. Win or lose, she would be lurking somewhere to crucify me. "Here I am, Mother, Father, Thea, Neighbors - a product of this country, born out of its soil, humiliated and dejected; look at my body, it thrived in the rice fields of Sual, my feet trekked rocks and muddy waters, rivers and lakes and gutters; my skin was tested by the blades of rice stalks. Here I am, I've nothing to lose if you find me ugly, but before I let you, I'll show the tough fibers dancing under my skin."

Flash bulbs flared around the catwalk, the ramp. The photographers pushed each others to take a picture of me, the abanicos rattled and vibrated in the hands of the donas. After seeing me, they whispered discontent among themselves, their eyebrows rose; other models grimaced, fashion mag editors sneered and got restless on their seats but they could not turn their eyes away from me. At the front row, I saw the puckered lips of Thea.

When it was over, the French couturier Pierre, the main judge, singled me out - I was announced the winner. Thea was shocked to hear it. If Magdalena Dizon the provincial girl opened the door to her downfall, I sealed it. Mig was waving a handkerchief and crying like a goddamn mother. It was all bullshit.

Thea immediately rose after the Contest. When the lights dimmed and the audience called on their maids and chauffers to their cars, she jumped up into the catwalk and followed me. I proceeded to the dressing room, a tiny corner walled by curtains. I was suddenly conscious of her watchful eyes while she hid behind a rack of clothes. Frank and Mig were busily chatting. They were on their way to meet me. I could hear their footsteps. On this night, I became suddenly self confident. Artus was right, winning took off all my inhibitions, I was suddenly proud of my body and built. Remembering her vindictiveness, I was determined to humiliate her tonight. I took off all my clothes; I seduced her. I got naked before her drunken eyes. I made sure she saw my perfect brown skin which she despised the Provincials for. I made sure that my Pacific muscles shone and moved like the strongest muscles found on this side of earth. I made sure that I was erect and smooth and young and fresh and innocent to her eyes. I moved slow, a true model, with my eyes lazily looking at her, in a cocksure manner, uninhibited and oblivious but conscious at the same time. Like walking in the darkness of the bedroom. I gave the knowing smile, the inviting smile, the smile of seduction and sex. And then I disappeared behind the racks. She frantically searched for me, worming her way around the place until I surprised her from behind. She jumped. I caught her trembling body in the midst of hanging clothes, then I dragged and pinned her against a wall. "I'm dizzy," she said. I felt the warm blood in her erect breasts, her face blushed. I wanted to bang her against the wall.

"What do you want" I demanded.

She stared at my strong hands and my golden skin; she was perspiring. My breaths became deep and heavy.

"You are a beast," she said.

"Aren't you too?"

"Damn you!" She was high and drunk. "To be beaten by that monkey Marlina Dizon is one thing. But you? Ha! Listen. All you Provincials win today because that's the fad. You'll pass away too one of these days."

I leaned and rubbed my groin against her thighs. "You'll pass up this too, Huh? Eh?"

She did not resist, her breathing became labored and heavy.

"Son of a bitch!" She cussed but she started groaning. "Son of a bitch!"

I suddenly pulled myself away, grinning. I noticed Frank and Miguel behind us, both stupefied.

"Don't," she moaned. Imploring, lusting with me."Don't go."

I pulled up my jeans. I stared at the mirror in front of me to see her reflection; she was watching my body as it glided between the racks of clothes. I turned around. She was unaware of everything around her, playing with herself.

"Ay puta, puneta!" Frank cussed.

She stood there, her panties down to her knees, saying accusingly, "You. You. You." While masturbating.

"Ay. Aay. Aaaay." Mig shrieked and shook and giggled and cried, all at the same time.



THE FALL-OUT



My stars were aligning in my favor, my era was just beginning. I was surprised to see the bitch again today as if nothing happened last night. When I passed by her, she declared, " I was so drunk last night I did not know what happened. What happened Roberto?" Yeah keep denying it bitch. "I nearly fucked you," I whispered. She blushed. For all I knew she was still playing with herself thinking of my nakedness. I was just too full of it now. My head was swimming in the air.

There was no big change in my life since last night. Yet. Really. I was given five thousand pesos to pose in what seemed forever in front of cameras, to produce a layout for the Isla Fashion House. The elite photographers were not exactly cordial. I've overheard one of them, "Hmp. I bet this provinical hustler slept with everyone on his way up."

Well, they were right.

Oh hell, so what? This they didn't know - out of gratitude, I went out with Pierre, the French coutourier after the Contest. As we wandered around Makati, he made an offer to me, "Would you like to go to Paris?" Those were his exact words. I was so flattered I offered myself for the night. But he was the second gay to refuse me. What was wrong with these coutouriers? What was wrong with me?

In school, students, especially the groundfloor Manilenos found my winning the Male Model of the Year hard to swallow. The Manila wealthiest clans spat on the ground. "The contest was rigged," they charged. Rigged? What was not rigged in Manila? Who were they fooling? There never was fairness in this damn city. Just look at its elections. Oh, rigged, just kiss my ass assholes! All these discontent and arguments and blah-blahs made me an instant celebrity in Manila. The devil in me broke loose. I never realized how easy it was to aqcuire fame and a lot of money in Manila. Without a sweat.

May, 198-

Dear God,



Am I selling myself to the Devil? Am I turning into Faust?

With five thousand pesos in my pocket, I invited Mig to Mabini for a drinking spree. One beer led to another and being totally drunk, I bid him to take a walk with me along Manila Bay - to bring down the alcohol. I saw a woman, obviously a prostitute. She winked at me upon seeing us.

I was drunk and horny. I told Mig I was still a virgin with women. Perhaps I could try this one time.

"My goodness," Mig retorted. "You don't know what disease that woman carries."

"I don't care, I want to fuck her now."

He released a big chuckle. "Look what five thousand pesos can do to a Filipino boy."

"Is it alright?"

Being drunk was no excuse, but being that I am now, quite a success in male modeling, and having jumped into bed with strangers so easily, I had turned into a carefree spirit. Suddenly, sex was like drinking beer, a wanton, a passing taste, a curiosity - that last word, curiosity was more like it. I've had me sucked and kissed and bitten and licked by men, I wondered how a woman would react if I did the same on her. How would it feel inside a woman? Would she be a soft as the cotton. How would it feel mounting all her softness and entering the warmth of her womanhood?

Mig turned his face away from me, as if embarrassed."You've got the money." He walked away.

When I approached the woman, I first hesitated, wanted to back away; I realized she was so so young, almost a child. But was I not young as well, just like her, and was I not a prostitute as well, just like her? What difference did it make if I received money for sleeping with every man who would hike up my social position in Manila from her picking up older men on the Boulevard and receiving money after having sex with them? Were we not similar branches coming from the same tree? Still, I wanted to run away - but there was no way for me to back out. She was ready, expecting to give her best for the money. She perfected her manner of seduction, better than mine. The animal in me came out in the open. I tried to reason with myself, to resolve this internal conflict that constantly pained me - But didn't I deserve this? After sharing passions with men, didn't I deserve a woman? And a woman would perhaps make me more manly in the eyes of Manila. I wanted to appear straight, or, was this real, did I really want to make love with a woman?

After the sex, I got more confused. Only after sex did I realise the mistake. I was overwhelmed by pity and guilt. Scared to death.

"What made you do this?" I asked the girl.

She shook her and cupped her ears. She let her hair dangle over her face. I tried to pull it up to see her. She was younger than I thought. My God what have I done?

I gave her a hundred pesos, fifty pesos extra, as if in doing so, I would atone for my sin. She wiped her nose with bare hands and scampered away. When I returned home, I realised my new watch was gone. For many nights, I would play her over and over again in my head, with guilt, pity, mourning but never lust.





Days later, I passed by the parlor of Miguel to tell him about my experience with the woman. But that was just my pretense to visit him. I was really intending to say goodbye.

I was following Frank's advise. By this time, I've already gained a footing as the new Signature Model of Isla Fashion House. This House catered to the Haute Coutour of the elite but it mostly earned its profits through Ready To Wear which was popular among the young crowds of Manila at that time. "Your image will be maximized for this clientele", he said.

"But first of all, I will overhaul your image."

I was staring at the light passing through the window prisms of his condo. Nodding in agreement to whatever he was saying. I didn't really care , the Isla people could do whatever they wanted with me. What mattered was the money I'd accumulate from my budding Philippine modeling carreer.

"The standards in becoming a legitimate model in Manila are ludicrous," he went on. "We're so far back in contemporary fashion philosophy we're so pathetic. And yes, don't laugh, fashion has a philosophy. It reflects the spirit of the country it represents. In the west, a virtual unknown can invade the fashion world and easily be accepted solely by the merits of his ability and looks. In here, your life is entwined with your image. Everything here is based on image. And the image Manila searches for is the hypocritical image of the rich son or daughter. The mestizo clan image. The politician image. Roberto - the provincial image, unless you're the son of a baron in the South - will never be patronized. Manila is living in the eighteen hundreds. But I will overhaul you so they would not impose their standards on you. In doing so I will change all horrendous images Manila had created within itself."

I smiled. "You don't have to do all that for me Frank. If I failed Manila standards, then I failed Manila."

"Believe you me, what I say is true. How many qualified people come and go in this country without given the chance to prove their worth? How many intelligent artists died failing to uplift this country's arts and standards? In a country where "who you know" counts more than "what you know", set backs are bound to happen. We make a step forward and two steps backwards. Look at me. I studied in New York Fine Arts School and Paris to end up as a glorified seamstress; creating what the elite dictates. Their tastes are horrible. They like colors that never were complementary. Scandalous! If copycats were the only people left on earth, they'd be the worst copycats. To think that because Madonna wore horrible lace in her latest MTV they could wear the same in some holy place is so objectionable."

I lifted my chin up "And why do you complain when you rake in all the money?"

"Who do I fool but myself? Thank God for the French and the Americans and the Italians and Japanese who come here to tell us the truth. They are the only ones who validate what I believe all along. This country's beauty comes from its indigenous materials and people, but, the elite would not buy that. We are so stupid; we imitate the west, neglecting our real jewels. The culture of the west is beautiful, but it belongs only to the west. It can stand as a standard, but we cannot claim it as ours. For we belong to this country of pearls and badjao divers, of Ifugaos and their Banaue rice terraces. Our color reflect the color of ripe coconuts, of dried palm covering our nipa huts. We are as graceful as bamboos, as firm as narra. Our face is that of the chieftains from Madjapahit and Shri-Visaya. Our language is Malayan. We are tested by typhoons, we feel our soil tremble under our feet, in an earthquake, we see the wrath of god in the explosions of volcanoes, and see the grace of God in the fertility of volcanic soil. We dance with the soft sway of rice stalks in infinite green, and the white ash covered shores of our bluest seas. It is sad we've neglected these, just look at our movies, our literature, our music... all imported and influenced by foreigners. Our art is like a tree that is so alien to our soil that despite our care, it fails to grow.

"How many times have I been condemned for challenging our stupid standards? Those who would not change had threatened my life, made fun of me, took away my source of livelihood. They left me no choice but to succumb ... to survive. But you Roberto, you are still young. You can prove them wrong. Gold is not found in exclusive soils, it is found after digging in uncharted and dangerous mountain. You are the gold Roberto Policarpio."

"And you are the minefield," I added, surprised in saying this.

He blurted out. "Don't talk to me this way. I may have slept with you once but that's it! I'm not taking you as a lover. I am serious in this art business. You'll not get a cent from me for anything outside of art fashion. I want our relationship purely professional from now on."

"Oh no, Frank I don't intend to milk you of money."

He jumped from the sofa. "I am an artist," he went on. "An artist is contented with beauty. When beauty is mingled with lust and personal desires, it gets tainted, it loses its dazzle. Give me your hand Roberto," he clasped my hand tightly, "Promise me you'll live up to the promise of this land. You are a work of art make no mistake, in keeping that promise, you will become as immortal as Mona Lisa. Your face will be fixed in history like a painting of Van Gogh."

"Who is Van Gogh?"

He burst into laughter. He went to the kitchen, placed ice cubes in glasses and poured wine that tasted sweet and gentle in my throat."It's red wine," he offered. When my gaze were fixed on the glass, he went on, "Van Gogh is my ideal artist. He killed himself when no one took his paintings seriously. Do you know how much people pay for those paintings nowadays? Millions of dollars. Ah what a sweet melancholy thought, to suffer and die in the name of beauty."

This man was lunatic. But hey, I could live with that as well.

Frank monologue seemed endless."I always felt alone in pursuing Philippine Art. Day after day, I spend endless nights in creativity; painful hours in fashioning art that could uplift the spirits of our people. I have forgotten time. I have forgotten friends. I have forgotten family. Thank you for listening to my thoughts about our country, in this tme and age, where beauty and art are no more. I want you to be my friend, an ally in my struggle against bastardization of our Art."

Though I could not distinguish VanGogh from Monalisa, I could understand his passion. "What do you want me to do?"

"I will recreate you. Establish you as the symbol of the indigenous people."

"How Frank?"

"First, I will clean up your image. Sweep off all the dirt of your past. I will seal your integrity and dignity - you'll be provided a decent apartment, I want you to avoid the media for a while, keep your background information secret even to your classmates. After four weeks, we'll create a media hype about you until you finally come out - as a Muslim Maranao."

Heck, I could be Queen Nefertiti if I had too.

The luminescence of the table lamp magnified the wrinkles on his face, a tired and sentimental face. I started groping for my boarding house keys in my pocket.

"Do you understand the plan?"

"Yes." I lied, displeased with the Muslim Maranao image.

I turned to leave. He waved his hand and bid me goodbye.

. That was why I wanted to say goodbye to Mig.

As I approached the door of his parlor, a thunderous applause roared all over the apartment complex, mixing with the cries of jolted sleeping babiesand crashing and braking of beer bottles.

"Way to go kid", the neighbors shouted, as they sprung from their rooms, women were carrying babies; men were, as usual, drunk.

I felt different. It dawned on me the magnitude of my achievement. I heard applause from neighbors, applause not for me but for themselves. Through me they found pride; my success proved hope did not fail in Manila - a glimmer of expectation - If I, a poor provincial made it, why couldn't they? I raised my trophy and gracefully bowed before all of them. Further whistles were released. It was a booming cry. Miguel was quick to grab me to his parlor.

"And now, it's time to talk about business," the hairdresser began. His eyes were still puffy from tears.

"What is wrong Miguel?" I asked. I was eager to share with him my experience with the young girl. But Mig was serious. Perhaps I thought, he was jealous. But he had no right to be, we did not have any binding contract for a romantic relationship, no written arrangement as to our working relationship. Both of us just took a chance and we both earned. Isla provided sponsors of candidates equal amount of prices. He made money out of me.

Mig signaled me to come inside his saloon, pulled a chair out of the receptionist's table and after getting a tissue paper to wipe his face, he sat ever so slowly on the chair. He began weeping. I noticed a different smell in the saloon, smell of marijuana. As I looked at him, I felt pity and disgust. He wiped his tears. His curly black hair was in disarray. He was not good looking for a Filipino - his eyes protruded, his nose was flat, his built was short and stocky. But all of these were covered by the kindness of his heart and shrewdness that took advantage of every opportunity that knocked on his door, regardless how ugly.

He did not look straight into my eyes. My questioning eyes. He talked and sounded so depressingly.

"Why did you sleep with Frank David without my knowledge?" he asked finally. It was interrogative.

I was baffled. "Where did you learn that?" I asked back.

"Have you heard the name Thea Valenzuela?"

Ah, of course, the harlot.

But I became defensive.

"What if I fucked anyone, that's none of your business. I fucked a prostitue in Manila Bay while you were there didn't I? You never had aproblem with that. What's wrong with me sleeping with Frank? Just like you, I needed the opportunity. We both made money out of this, I shared my body with you, why can't I with the others?"

He jumped up suddenly and pounded a fist on the table - pens and schedule books fell off the table, he was red with fury.

"You ask me what's wrong with that? I don't any problem with you fucking Thea Valenzuela or a prostitute. But fucking that faggot Frank David? What's wrong with male sluts and whores like you?"



Alex Maskara