Diary 29

MY NIGHT



The audience was hushed; not a wisp of air, or voice, or toast was heard. Gentle beam of blue light descended upon the stage. Marlena Dizon came out, she was wearing the simplest black tube dress, pasted with flower shapes, diamonds glittered around her neck; she wore purple high heels. She was followed by Edna Morales, Maureen Brilliantes, Connie Matua. After the ladies strutted, the men emerged. Jake Estacio, Alvin Camacho, Tony Cruz. All of them wore standard Couture, truly Western, stylish. The audience were delighted.

I remained isolated in an enclosure, make-up and gel applied, my hair brushed back. Frank said, "Surprise!" as he brought out the garments he had been working on for months.

In seeing the garments, I thought my head fell off. "Frank, what in the world is this? This is a joke, right?"

He did not hear me. He sprinted out of the enclosure. I could tell he was under stress, his eyebrows were nearly touching, a cigarrete was hanging from his pouted lips. He ripped seams and precious textiles. Cussing. "Damn, haven't you tried this on A like ANY model before this night or were you just soooo fucking stoned?" he screamed at the fitter. The young girl was nearly hysterical in her nervousness. Frank kept his round of fits. Marlena was too tall, or too short, or too plump, or too skinny.

"We've tried this a million times Frank."

"Why doesn't it fit?"

Edna was pulling her dress up, "I can't breathe," she begged.

"Then don't!"

The other male models beside me were passive. As usual, they were high; they were more interested in dating the models than showcasing clothes. Or making money out of the gay clientele around. It was a virtual pandemonium, fashion people were running, jumping, trotting like wild animals. Not knowing which is which. Who wears what. Frank fussed on every defect no matter how slight - loose button, mismatched colors, wrinkled lines. "Why didn't you tell me, puneta?" I'd never saw so much intense concentration in a person in all my life.

Then I heard him scream. "Roberto, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

A few minutes later, we both stood gazing at his secret designs, Frank started taking deep breaths to relax. I placed my hand on his back and massaged it, I told him that everything will turn out alright. Actually he was more nervous than agitated.

But I was still shocked by the clothes I'm going to model with. "These are too daring," I said. Or crazy. Or weird.

He said, "I am ashamed of the fashion in this city. This is my rebellion. My defiance. My way of showing displeasure. This is the reality. The truth. This is the immorality and decadence of this city."

"Are you out of your mind? We will land in jail with these."

"As I said, I am a risk taker. I am not worried. Isla is more concerned with money. There is not much in Haute Couture. There is always the Ready To Wear to rely on."

"But the cameras, the public... I will be wearing these."

"That's what you're hired for. You have to express them, their thoughts, their meanings."

"They scare me."

"If you believe in yourself, you will be fine. I can't help you now. A good model will always be good no matter what he wears. On that ramp you will be by yourself. Break a leg Roberto."

I wanted to run away at that moment.

The audience gasped when I came out on the catwalk. I wore an expensive jusi of the finest pineapple fibers, the barong. My sombrero was made up of fine bamboo strips. Underneath the barong was a silver vest. But my pants... my pants shocked me and the audience - pinned on it were layers upon layers of aerated condoms, IUDs, contraceptives, tampons. The old matrons, upon seeing these, flapped their abanicos faster than the wings of mockingbirds. Their husbands closed their eyes. I heard the laughter of Thea in the crowd.

Next was a loud batik - green, orange, red, yellow - the sharpest colors imaginable. This cloth covered me from neck down to toes. Notoriously conservative in front, until I turned. It covered only the front half of my body. I was butt naked at the back. The audience for the first time booed me. I heard the shrieks of the Donas and the curses of the dons. The other models burst into laughter. The photographers feasted on my naked back.

The next two features were the most controversial. Named Manila Hemp Reality, I wore a sackcloth, the rough texture itched me all over, it was patched with soda cans, disposable plastic wrappers, eggshells. While I strutted, the most unthinkable happened. From the backdoor and on toward the stage, waifs and homeless people emerged - stunned mothers with exposed breasts suckled by whimpering babies , child prostitutes, emaciated kids - they all walked beside me, some with stunned faces, some grinned to show toothless gums.

I swear I saw Dona Purita faint.

My clothes were changed. I did not care anymore. This was beyond me. Frank was utterly mad. He was sick. He was dead.

I wore The Natural. A carefully woven coconut blades over a white cotton. My shirt was woven in the form of a spider web. I heard a shout. "What the hell are you doing?" Isla's Board of Directors stood up and walked out.

Undaunted, I gave the Finale called The Body seller. It was a G- string made of tiniest pearls, matched by a necklace of the biggest pearls, wrist brace of pearls and ankle cuffs of pearls. It was my most expensive and scandalous outfit. My pubic hair was exposed for all to see. This time the boos became louder, the audience began clanging their glasses and plates, they tapped their tables and chairs, then they banged the floor. It was the noisiest disapproval I've seen.



SHIVERS IN MY SPINE



A bomb was detonated.

This explosion was not part of the fashion show. It was part of the conflict called the Philippines. It would perhaps be better to set aside my narration at this point and explain to you what was going on in the Philippines by the time my era as the top male model was in progress. A bomb was detonated at the lobby of Manila Hotel. That was what happened. Why it happened I will tell you: In the decade of eighties, after years and years, decades and decades of the Dictatorship, one society emerged in the Philippines, it was a New Society that was characterized by increased affluence among the well-connected few and increased poverty among the disconnected majority of poor. The affluence was well-maintained by the old colonial rich and by the new rich whose only qualification was being a friend of Marcos -

These were the new rich military men, fed to the full and given grand wealth in return for their loyalties to the Dictatorship, ruthless military men, famous for their capacity to vanish those who contradicted the Dictatorship.

These were the sudden scholars and intellectuals because they were good in singing and writing and poetizing praises for the dictatorship.

These were the sudden rich businessmen because for every one hundred percent profit they made, fifty percent was directly deposited into Marcos' many local and foreign accounts. Marcos became so rich that in its drunken wealth, it began to think its bank account was the National Treasury. Imelda Marcos started buying buildings in Manhattan. She began her buying sprees all over the world. She began collecting shoes.

In the opulence of the rich, the country lost count of where its money went. Whenever there was a need for more money, Marcos and his cohorts resorted to borrowing to international funds at ludicrous interests. The country was now drowning in debt. The countryside lost its energy to develop. Prices of commodities rose up. People started cutting down their meals. Children began dying and their parents turned childless joined the Communists. There they cried: I'd rather die eating bullets than die with nothing in my stomach. Still, the Marcoses did not hear it. They did not see it. They were totally blind to the damage they inflicted on the Philippines that even after decades of their downfall, the country remained enmeshed in a world of conflict, accusation, suspicion. And for years to come, the Filipino resentment against one another would continue to haunt the whole nation. The Dictatorship raked the gold of the land to one side, leaving the other side empty, barren, flat and dangerous.

That barren side was now being populated by the Communist Party and its military arm, NPA, now becoming a big Force to reckon with.

By the decade of eighties, it was nearly impossible to bring back the old Filipino, the one who did not resent his fellow Filipino because there was not much discrepancy in their social positions, or wealth, or advantages, or opportunities. There was a time the Philippines was peaceful because everyone was everyone. There were no super-wealthy, no super-beautiful, no super-stars, no super-politicians, no super-intelligent and no Smokey Mountain of the poor.

It was in this atmosphere that destiny brought me to Manila limelight as an instrument of Frank David Jr to reach out to the poor of the Philippines. But it was a pointless endeavour. As pointless as cleanliness in a city where dirt was innate. Manila was becoming permanently dirty. How could you be clean in a city where everyday the face of the Dictator stared at you, like an insult to you, like a robber who tied you up and grabbed up all your properties, like bloodsucker of the night? Frank David did not reach the poor because the poor were resigned to their anger. The manner by which he delivered his fashion show did not make them think of him differently from the Dictatorship or the rich few. They simply thought he was using them.

Thus, a bomb exploded in the lobby of Manila Hotel.

But, I have not told you the whole story yet. There was an event that proved to be a catastrophic to the Dictatorship. In 1983, Senator Aquino was assassinated at the tarmac of Manila International Airport. It was a routine assassination carried out by the military, as routine as they made anti-Marcos rebels disappear in the night. It was carried out to please Marcos, because Senator Aquino was the lone powerful opposition voice to the Dictator's regime. It was a clean job, they thought, but they did not anticipate the outcome. The Filipino had reached the limit of his suffering and patience and fear. Before the casket of the dead Senator, the Filipino found himself to belonging to millions of Filipinos who had the same gripe against the Dictatorship. This Filipino anger was intense and good. But it was also misused by the Communists.

Thus, the bomb at the lobby of Manila Hotel.

The agitation in the crowd turned into nervous silence. Then the lights blinked. Brown-out. For at least ten minutes, everyone was too frozen to speak. Sirens began wailing. Police and uniformed men came and huddled the elites. One by one, they were escorted to the door. At the lobby of the hotel, student activists met them, with clenched fists and with raised voices they were shouting DOWN WITH THE MARCOS CRONIES.

When things settled down, Frank was surrounded by the Board of Directors, screaming and accusing him. "Look what you have done!" They said he invited the Communists inside the enclave of the opulent Manila Hotel.

The homeless and waifs and child prostitutes wandered around with glee, they were the least bothered by the commotion.

I was awakened by an early telephone call from Frank the following morning.

"I need to see you," he said. I immediately drove to his condominium. I found his door ajar, and decided to come in. Upon entering, I heard the soft sax music coming from his stereo, Kenny G was playing. Frank's back was turned to me. The wreaths of flowers given to him stood against the ceilings. All looked very sad. I walked towards him, quietly, since I thought he was busy. I paused for a while and waited. He was arranging an orchid in the center of coconut palm leaves, pierced in a banana bark. He folded the palm leaves around the orchid, tied them with strings and made them stand like an inverted umbrella. His hands' dexterity transformed the orchid and palm leaves into art which brought joy into my heart. How I loved to see him work with his hands. But he was crying, in a suppressed crying sort, very, very quiet. This puzzled me. When done, he picked up the scattered pieces of textiles on the floor and stuffed these into his mouth. He screamed while weeping, without a sound.

This was a bad omen.

"Frank, what is wrong?" I asked.

"They don't understand," he said, pulling out the stuff from his mouth and wiping his tears.

I was overwhelmed by pity and guilt. Somehow, I felt I was a part of his failure.

"They will never see the meaning of my work; they'd rather reduce it into something miniscule and political. All I wanted to do was tell the truth. But people in this city cannot handle the truth. To turn our eyes from the poor and decadent is fatal and will come back to us. A waif today can become the technocrat of tomorrow. If that child is one that had been abused, our future will be frightening."

Newspapers surrounded him.

The headlines foretold his fear: A Bomb exploded last night as a reaction to the death of ex- Senator Aquino at the tarmac of Manila International Airport. The Headlines showed the pictures of the bloated Senator.

Underneath the Headline, were commentaries on the biggest fashion event in the city.

One was sharp - "To make a political statement using fashion as a tool is like building an edifice with paper. It is useless and worthless. Worse, it is playing with fire. What happened last night was an invitation to the rebels, to energize the resentment among the people of the city. There's no such thing as political correctness in the world of fashion; fashion is a fixed component of capitalism, created for leisure, not platform or agenda. It sprung from the whim and luxury of those who alone could afford its exorbitant price. Who in the city of Manila would buy filth and rags? Frank David Jr did not know what he was doing. The New York educated genius came back with political ideas that frightened and scandalized too many people."

Another mainstream fashion editorial was much cruel - "How dare he! What is he up to in glorifying the waifs? The misfortune of city orphans and homeless people is not caused by the well-to-do. Their parents are. This is not a communist country. To crucify the rich for all the troubles of this land is vanity. How far can the rich go to please the poor? They are the biggest contributors to Charities and Church that are burdened by these unfortunate people."

The left leaning periodical, Marangal did not mince words either - "Ah! So the elite Frank David Jr is picking the cause of the street people. Hypocrite! He did not go out there to bare his ass, he did not come out there to wear his filthy designs. Who did he use? As usual, the proletariat, Muslim Maranao and the wandering homeless people of the streets. I can't believe these elite. They pay the poor for their ideals and afterwards go home to their exclusive homes, and order their poor servants to make them coffee."

"They don't understand." Frank repeated.

I wanted to embrace and assure him at that time, but I stopped. I said,"Come, leave this dark room for a while and see the world outside, you are being too unkind to yourself after working so hard."

He was over-dramatic, that was what I thought when he offered me the orchid. "Take this flower, this is my show of admiration to your beautiful performance." Over-dramatic or not, It was a gesture I would never forget. The greatest compliment and praise I'd ever received.

I held his hand as we walked to Manila Bay. His crying did not stop. He could not be pacified.

After the failure of my first stint, I became determined to secure my place in the fashion business despite all odds.

I began to work-out everyday to build up my physique. With the help of Frank and Isla Fashion House I was provided a personal trainer. For a week, this personal trainer lectured me on muscles, which part of the body I should develop. "For a male model," my trainer said,"the shoulder blades and buttocks are of utmost importance." So we worked hard in Muscle Mania Gym, an exclusive gym nestled in the tropical gardens of Nayong Pilipino, known to cater to crowds of high society - showbusiness stars, models, and as usual, the few rich . Soon, I spotted with them during weight training. I added running and boxing to my regimen. When my muscles acquired better definition, I advanced into swimming. My tan evened out by frequent visits to tanning salons.

I squeezed my work-outs in between my very tight schedule in the university. My grades began to fly. I discovered that academic excellence largely depended on being well fed, well housed, well provided with needs. I was not dumb after all, in fact I was luckier because I did not require long hours of sleep to get going. Four hours of sleep was enough . After work-out, I dropped in any of the thousands of restaurants sprouting in Manila, ranging from Chinese, Japanese, French, Italian, American junks, and Filipino, billable to Isla. When done, I settled down in my study table and pored over my books.

Though Frank remained my mentor, I heard other voices in the field of modeling and fashion. Amidst the blinding fog of marijuana and the dreamy eyes of other models high in cocaine, I listened to their advices. "A good model is someone who would make people see themselves through him."

"Don't be lured by staying at the peak, always circulate, join the crowd, set the pace, set the trend, always stick by your style, dress advanced."

Etcetera.

I've sat very high standards for myself. I intended to become the ultimate people- pleaser. I grabbed all opportunities to appear in runways, commercials, tabloid interviews, I made everything appear so easy and casual. I've amassed money for the Isla Company's Ready To Wear. In the long run, I've fulfilled Frank's expectations.

"Get a model that represents the Filipino majority - the genuine local indigenous one. And the whole fashion of the Philippines will turn around. Always remember the spirit of Identification, the idea that people see themselves through the reflection of one person. Roberto, you're their mirror." He told me one time.

I was trailed by throngs of people who wanted to be like me. The mestizos were overwhelmed by the fashion trend I established. They were sidestepped as other fashion designers imitated Frank by scouting and hiring their own ethnic models. The mestizos anxiously watched while I ripped their traditional hold on Manila's face, handed down to them by the King of Spain and American colonizers.

Tia and her conniving gang relentlessly insulted me. "That indio, son of a farmer and a lunatic mother, comes in swaggering like something is stuck in his ass."

I wanted to beat them for good. Shut them up.

But an unexpected source came into the open. In a city of gossipers and rumor-millers, secrets aren't easily kept. They became delirious when Mig vented out his anger and frustration over me. To make me pay back, he poured all my secrets. In an instant, I was added in the long list of the rumor mill; whispers flourished behind my back.

I was said to have screen tested for the movies but had to quit because I was valued solely as a fuck machine. I was said to have attempted to go Paris but was blocked at the Philippine Departure Area at MIA because I could not be issued a passport - apparently, I was a bastard child with no birth certificate. Of course, I was said to have fucked my way in becoming a model. The elite immediately grabbed the rumors. It hurt me deeply. My apartment was immediately canceled by the White Corinthians Condo Association headed and owned by Makarisog clan.

"Who the hell you think you are?" Frank responded to the Isla Company Board of Directors when they recommended my immediate termination.

"It's all your fault, if you had warned that French faggot not to pick that son of a bitch," one of the director blurted. "Don't you listen to our clients? They are horrified by what you have done since that day you introduced this trash to public".

"I am not hearing this!" Frank said, cupping his ears, appalled at this blatant discrimination.

He never thought of it until now. He knew beforehand that building me up as Signature model would lead to battle - but it was a battle of art, or business, or Filipino psyche. Until now, with all the increased sales of Ready To Wear, he thought he proved himself right. He never expected a battle of skin colors.

"We are not concerned with our sales, Frank," another director spoke, he looked like a professor, thick rimmed glasses, obese, yellowed teeth and breath reeking of tobacco. "It is our responsibility to protect our name and image. This model of yours took the helm of our advertisement without a clear and complete background, for instance, we don't even know who his parents are..."

"They are farmers in Pangasinan for Christ sakes!" Frank interrupted, almost screaming in anger.

"Calm down! You don't know whether he's criminal or prostitute."

Frank stared at them in disbelief. Infuriated. "This all boils down to one thing. You cannot accept Robert Policarpio because he is not one of you and you dread the day he will succeed. He will shatter your tiny little speck of existence shielded under your own western myths."

"You can scream all you can, but I warn you... Shut up. This is what we came up with and you better listen. From now on, you can present him anyway you want except one thing - you will not show his face again - ever."

Later on, when Frank told me all these, I felt standing on a shaky ground. The odds against me were in surmountable.

I leased an apartment in the middle class part of the city, along E. Quintos street, rented by an old spinster. The room was not that bad, it offered decent amenities and its quiet provided me good concentration in my studies. I occupied this room only at nights. I concealed my position as the Signature model of the biggest fashion house in Manila. During the day, I was running from school, then work out, then to pictorials. At nights, I sat on my study table writing my diaries or listening to music or studying. It was a very ordinary existence.

Days passed by and my preppie walk and clothes took the city by storm. Everything I wore was bought by the young crowds. I guess there was something in my glistening skin and growing muscles.

My name and face was never shown again in my modeling stints, my posters became dark from neck up. And from then on people called me Faceless Adonis.

Thea Valenzuela pursued her cause with utmost perseverence, spying on me, even hiring people to trail me. I was amazed at the steps she was willing to undertake in her ludicrous goal of toppling me. Vindictive lady. Yet, I slowly and quietly fought using my own means. If she would close the door to me, I'd force my way in. I would not buckle.

I nurtured the identity of Faceless Adonis. Isla House of Fashion sent me to the top dermatologist in Manila - a complete make-over was done. My skin was bleached, laser treatment was used to remove my discolored scars, I had a nose job, my lips were tightened and thickened. I sported a moustache.



Alex Maskara