Diary 28

"Mig, watch your tongue."

"Ah-huh, are you telling me what to say now? You don't want to hear what I say? Roberto Policarpio, don't be carried away by your tiny trophy. You're like the others, you come to this saloon with nothing and upon stumbling a little glory you begin to think you own the world. I made you Roberto, you can not do anything - anything - without me."

"Since when did I become your prisoner? Who do you think you are in my life?"

"Who the hell am I to you? I'm more than your fucking mother. I'm your manager you slut."

"Oh no you are not! And will you fucking calm down?"

"How can I calm down?" He growled. "I've invested my energy, time, money for you. After all that am I this pathetic nothing to you?"

"Mig I just came here to say goodbye to you."

Mig suddenly turned quiet. Then, his voice became terse, sharp, intense. "User! You fucking user!"

"Mig, I have a new life to live now. Please be happy for me."

I was not sure if he heard me. His eyes were focused on the table. "I wasted my money for you. I respected you. I made you."

Then, he swung around holding a pair of scissors. He attacked me with it but he missed. I grabbed and twisted his hand with the scissor, he began shaking.

"I've had enough of this! You're high and drunk!" I was yelling at him now.

He started bursting out loud, "Slut! Whore! Bitch! Puneta! Puta! User! Cocksucker! Faggot!"

I grabbed the scissor from his hand. Holding it, I walked toward the door.

"Don't turn your back on me," He hissed. "You son of a bitch. You are mine."

"Oh yeah?"

I kicked the door open only to face my neighbors who were applauding and congratulating me a while back. This time, they were all nervously staring at me, obviously listening and now staring at my scene with Mig. I stopped. Whatever little pride left in me by now totally disappeared with the wails of Mig inside. I continued walking on the hallway.

I could hear the screaming Mig behind me. "I spent money for you! You are a user, a good-for-nothing animal! One day, you'll be passed from one person to another. You will become a gift, a commodity, a donor, a fee but not a model. You will learn to swallow bitter pills. You will become a pervert!"

I could not take it anymore. You were so nice Mig, so decent. Why did you turn this way? Why be such an asshole?

"I had to give you my dick before you helped. You are no different from the rest!" I shouted back, setting the neighbors aback.



FRANK DAVID



I called Frank for help. He instructed me to stay in his condominium for the night. I was adamant with this offer. I didn't want to sleep with another man again for a favor. Sensing my reluctance, he assured me -"I don't do such dirt. I don't take advantage." I blushed, embarrassed.

He listened to what happened between me and Mig with amusement. And then, he resumed what he was doing. He was so occupied with work that he seemed to have forgotten to change his clothes or take the shower, I could tell by his smell. The appliances and windows in his condominium had accumulated dusts; cobwebs were thick in corners. The carpet was dull and marks of muddy footprints have hardened on it - It was like the place of a dead person. Or a person who'd lost his sense of living. Around him were textiles of different colors, forms, and sizes, scattered on the floor, waiting for his touch. I looked at his hands, the hands that wanted to change the world. Oh how I pitied him. He turned his back to me and resumed the endless knitting, cutting, measuring, thinking, silently and alone.

Lying on a strange bed, I could not fall asleep. In the living room which he converted into work place, I heard the faint unfolding and unrolling of textiles, the scrawls of a pencil on cloth and paper patterns, followed by the crumpling of paper and occasional coughs that broke the silence of the night. Classical music accompanied the rattle of his electric sewing machine.

I got up and tiptoed toward the open balcony. I directed my eyes toward Manila Bay. In the night it appeared like infinite emptiness. Very dark. The breeze enveloped me, I felt like flying. I stuck out my tongue, even the air was salty. I rubbed my eyes to see clearly. The waves turned into white ripples that touched the building where I stood. I'd never seen a more beautiful sight. Slowly, slowly, the moon peeked out of the clouds, and I saw the shape of the seawall, the movements of lovers, the swaying of coconut trees. The reflection of the moon shone upon the blades of their leaves, the buildings became gray, standing so morosely, so romantic. I heard a guitar. A song of a child. Lights flickered at the far end. Boats containing bent old fishermen lighted Japanese lanterns, candles burned in the dark. They were casting their nets. Cruise, cargo, and passengers' ships crawled their way across me, like princesses in a Santacruzan, wearing crowns of diamond, silver, gold, displaying brilliance and tranquil beauty. As I got embroiled with the sight, I felt my eyes getting heavy, my lids were drooping. I sat on one of the plastic folding chairs and decided to pass the night on it, under the moonlight, embraced by the breeze and serenaded by the sound of waves intermingling with the song of the child.

My muscles loosened, my breathing slowed down; I fell into the world of dreams.

I saw a woman drifting, a most beautiful woman. She came out of the water surrounded by sharp and blinding brilliance. She walked toward me with opened arms. Her eyes were almond shaped, her skin golden, her teeth pearly white. She wore a necklace of everlasting and sampaguita. She extended her arms. But one hand held a knife; her eyes suddenly burned in fury; fire sprung out of her mouth. She embraced me; I felt an electric sensation that seized and threw me into a furnace - a burning mouth of volcano.

I was awakened. In the thin line between dream and alertness, the woman still stood in front of me, for a few seconds. I, struck with fear and panic, screamed.

Frank rushed to my side and shook me awake. I stared at him, mute.

I heard his voice, "What happened?"

"I saw her." I said when my voice came back. I was trembling.

"Who?"

"The lady from the bay."

He stopped for a moment, perplexed. "You too?" He went back inside, he returned with a towel, handed it to me so I could wipe my sweat.

What did he mean by that. Me too, me too - did that mean someone else was dreaming what I dreamt?

"You better come inside." He admonished me. "Don't let this perspiration dry up with the morning breeze. It'll give you a cold."

I followed him absentmindedly.

Recovering my reasoning, "Have you seen the same lady, Frank?"

He looked at me bearing a zombie expression. He shrugged his shoulders and resumed his work. He appeared annoyed. This was the same guy who was so passionate about Art earlier. Why was he so quiet now? He was shaken by my dream . . . I could tell.

"It's that lady," he mumbled. "The superstitions I've heard about her apparitions in dreams have made me fearful of the nights. So scared that I've refused to stay even in the balcony. It is said that she is a sign of impending death. She baits and makes you sleepwalk and drags you down the depths of the sea. Blame it on the Japanese. She had been asleep for centuries and got awaken by their Occupation. The Japanese . . . they starved us until we were forced to eat dog meat, fish entrails, and alive shrimps. Initially, I brushed off this unfounded fear but when she came back to my dreams every night, I began to worry."

"Why did she appear to me? Am I going to die?"

He ignored my question. He changed the topic.



MY INTRODUCTION TO PUBLIC



Three weeks and a Toyota Celica later, I was living in a fashionable apartment in White Corinthians. Another week had passed and Isla Fashion House was busy launching me as its Signature Male Model. My first catwalk was hyped up in the media. My real name was dropped. Frank introduced me as Muslim Maranao. The preparation was extensive and millions of pesos began pouring in. Through it all, Frank had kept his designs for me hidden. "A surprise," he said when pressed about them. This made a lot of Isla Board of Directors uncomfortable and suspicious. Finally, the day arrived. My first show was held in Manila Hotel.

Despite the misgivings, this fashion show was still Manila's high society show. People flocked it not because of me, but because society page editors and photographers were there. No one would miss this. The elite would kill each others for a place on the magazines and newspapers. This one time event would sell to the beauty-contest, fantasy- hungry people of Manila. Tradition was not easily forsaken.

Because the elite lived in an illusion that Manila was a top city and a major competitor to the western world and trendsetter of Asia - a thinking handed down by the remnants of the old colonialists - they used fashion shows to exhibit their excessive wealth and sophistication. I paused and watched each detail of their moves. Ah, these elite. There was no mystey around them anymore. Their culture was so pervasive and so predictable. They tried to be exclusive through titles and honors bestowed upon themselves, of their own accord. They had the one percent wealthiest of the city, the top five hundred families, the top five prettiest, the top three handsomest, the top eaters of pork, the top spaghetti cooks, the top hacenderos, etcetera. They formed tightly knitted groups that knew exactly each others' smell, mannerisms, choice of food, language. Their eyes veered away from the sight of the city, and extended them beyond the Pacific Ocean, to San Francisco, from there, they leaped across Atlantic Ocean, for Madrid and London, swerved back to Buenos Aires, Brazil or Mexico City. Asia for them was not as worthy of their attention as the West.

Spanish and English were their preferred mediums of communication and debased Tagalog as the tongue of the unfortunate natives, their domestic compatriots - small, brown, flat nosed and ignorant- whose greatest aspiration was to become babysitters in Singapore or maids in Hongkong or laborers in Saudi Arabia. "Bah they're lucky enough to live and serve in my mansion. They should be thankful to breathe the air I breathe, and use water from the faucet where I use water from." They thought they have the features of the West, secretly hired cosmetologists to remove any trace of the native in them. They made sure they were allotted the best seats in every major city event, especially in the small but elegant Manila Hotel - the hotel that launched their careers or their cotillons as debutantes, or their coquettish infatuations, their fantastic weddings, amidst the deterioration of the city around them. Debilitated by self - glorification. They expected to be noticed, believing what they wore, their features, their attitudes ought to be emulated. This included their Haute Couture, usually cheap versions of Paris or Milan or London, or New York. And when no one noticed them, they turned defiant.

So they attacked Manila Hotel with grand entrances, rising out of white limousines parked in the middle of roaring black-smoke-belching and loud jeepneys. They gingerly made their ways to the hotel, wiping the black soot of the city from their faces, detesting, rejecting, denying the homeless babies on the arms of their mothers on the sidewalks, giving extra tips to security guards to block the ugly sights from invading their spaces again.

Thea Valenzuela came wearing a mini that scandalized them.

With expensive and dazzling jewelry that jingled every time they moved, they swung and huddled their heads together, smirked with one another - "The nerve! Look at her! How scandalous! She is nearly naked!" After wards, they smiled and giggled, waved their abanicos charmingly to her. "How are you Thea? How is your Papa, hija?"

"Muy bien," Thea answered with a fatal smile, like a tiger ready to devour them. When she turned her back, they resumed their bitter remarks. "I can't stand that puta. Such ostentatious showiness slander my high moral sensitivities; Doesn't she see the blasphemy she commits against the honorable image of her father, Judge Tito Valenzuela, the son of the Republic's first Supreme Court Justice? Poor man, bless him."

"That is not the problem of the honorable judge. What is his wife doing, Jesus Mary Joseph?"

"Yes. How can Dona Isabelita de Corazon viuda de Valenzuela, hija de Jesus allow such utter indecency in front of us? If I were she, I would lock that nina in Santa Teresa Convent."

"Comadres, do not be so cruel. Give that nina a little credit . . . at least. At least she sticks to her true heritage; she belongs to us, among us, remember? I happened to know that the poor girl declined to model tonight, to avoid cat walking alongside that pendejo Pangasinense - the indio provinciano?"

"I don't blame her. The world is flipping. Since when did the indio become a model of beauty? JesusMariaJosep, what did these contemporary fashion designers see in his skin? I can't stand it . . . Imagine tonight, he will wear exclusive clothes, he should be ashamed! I can't imagine mi jiho Joselito wearing the clothes he wears, Que barbaridad!"

"That designer should be stopped. He is out of his mind - like these dirty slob scum bags. What is so exotic about them? That Frank David Jr. - how can he betray his father? Poor Francisco David Sr., if he were alive, how would he tolerate his homosexual son who worships brown skins. All this makes me vomit."

"In fact, I did not want to come here at all . . . but the ritual, amigas, the ritual. I cannot skip this annual event. If I did, what will the society pages editors say? It's not easy, Madre mio... the last time I missed this Haute Couture, my honorable name swept all the headlines of the morning papers - Donde esta Senora Purita de Pacificador? Some made these cruel remarks about my hija Roselia, they insinuated I accompanied her to the States to have her abortion and worse, they even implied I went through facial and breast operation myself. Would you believe that?"

Silence.

"You really have a voluptuous figure and naturally unblemished skin at age fifty Purita."

Silence again.

"So, how did your esposo take it?"

"Dios mio, how did he take it? How did I take it? I cried day and night. It took another skiing trip in Aspen to calm me down. From then on, I made sure I was present everywhere I was needed . . . The wall of this old hotel reminds me a lot of my past. Remember, my cotillion where I've first met my husband? Oh my, oh my. My one and only husband - make no mistake of that. Nowadays, there is only a handful of Filipinas who can claim the same husband from wedding to funeral. How many convent raised Filipinas are in their third or fourth marriages? My wedding was held here too."

"Oh I remember that one."

"No one will forget that!

"All of the nation's eyes were fixed on us - the dream couple- my husband, the only son of the former president Graciano Sunico and me, the fifth Miss Philippines, third runner -up in the Miss Universe Contest 1966, what better couple could they ask for?"

Their conversation went on while they waited for the fashion show to begin. They were ushered into their places by the public relations officer, another mestizo.

"Oh Senora, I made a mistake. You're supposed to be seated behind Tessie Alcantara." He said, after he misplaced Dona Purita.

The stunned Dona Purita reflexively pulled her purse to her chest. "Hijo de puta," she mumbled. "How dare you sit me behind that whore of a mistress Tessie Alcantara! Puneta!"

She addressed her companions, making sure she was heard by the embarrassed and nervous usher. "Well, time is really changing. The Chinese and mistresses are pushing us aside. I never anticipated, for the life of me, to see the day I will look at the nape of an oriental."

I was as nervous as hell. Tonight would be the night to show what I was made of . . .

"What is the surprise you're keeping?" I asked Frank.

"If I'd tell yo, it wouldn't be a surprise anymore, would it? This much I can say, it is risky and daring."

"Is beign risky and daring necessary?"

"Roberto, you are beginning to sound like the elite. What do you think of fashion designers? Glorified seamstresses? The element of surprise is important in this business. After all, apparel fashion is a measure of economy, politics, culture. The clothes we create reflect people's aspirations, hopes, beliefs, customs, traditions, norms, fads, vanities, hypocrisies, crimes, triumphs, defeats, indifference, even the weather . . . "

"Stop . . . Stop. I get it."

He released peals of laughter. "Do you really want to know the surprise?"

"No. I'd like to be impressed."

"Or shocked. Shock is the right word."

I paused for a while, suddenly fearful. "Will it be shocking, Frank?"

"Just wait and see."

My knowledge of the fashion and modeling had increased during the past four weeks through my association with Frank David. I learned that designing clothes was as fleeting as modeling. What was thought glamorous was in reality murderous and cruel. How far could you go with style? Garments were spun from limited basic patterns: shirt, skirt, pants, jacket, dress, gown, footwear. A fashion designer reincarnated these in different forms every season. How far could he go? Accessories, colors, textures, shapes, depth, ease, were just a few of the areas that could be altered- but how much artistic alteration was allowed? The art and intelligence in creation weren't enough; chance and luck counted a lot. A lot of luck. And guts. I'd heard of too many designers rising and falling as quickly as putting on clothes. In their struggles and competitions in the business, some succumbed to madness, others murdered their fellow designers. It was a difficult Decade.

Despite this fierce competition and hard work, fashion in Manila remained a copycat of the West, the best designers' standard of creativity was improvisation on the lines made by Chanel or Lacroix. In its entire history, Manila never made any spectacular niche in the fashion world, it could not even match Hongkong or Tokyo. It had no name. It had no identity.



Alex Maskara