Diary 33

it out, she couldn't convince me.

completely ignored all safety precautions. I blamed myself. I should have known better, what shall I do now?

I was wide awake. I could not bear the heat of the room and sleep was difficult. I got out of bed. She watched me carefully. "Where are you going?"

"I need to think."

"Please stay with me," she begged. I stared back at her, her hair was neatly pulled back, legs peeped through a pink Japanese silk robe embroidered with red roses, she was lying on bed, her face full of cream, filing her nails. In her royal outfit, she looked like Cleopatra bed. A fan in the ceiling rotated weakly, unable to fend off the heat. I turned away. She abruptly jumped from the bed and threw her nail file to me. Her robe fell off. She announced, "As God is my witness, this child is yours, nobody else's."

"Do I sound like doubting you?"

I walked out; made my way toward Lerma and settled on its overpass landing, close to fruit peddlers just about to lock in their produce in wooden cranes. The smell of apples and oranges diffused in the air and mingled with smell of mabolo, arrozcaldo and adobo. I was hungry again. I could not afford food again. I made a few steps toward Avenida and temporarily posed under the pillars of condemned buildings that used to be the biggest candle manufacturer of Manila. Abandoned since electricity was invented. In a tiny corner, a family of four was cooking meal in an empty milk can atop a modified stove out of three broken hollow blocks. The mother blew fire on dried floor slabs. The fire blackened the can. The dirty children didn't notice me, their eyes intent on fish grilling and rice cooking. Emaciated, these children often attracted the media and were featured in newspapers to generate humanitarian sympathy and donations. Globally. The money never went to them. Like me, they served as models only. They had to stay this way, to ensure all charity coffers were full.

I half ran on the narrow side road from Lerma to Recto, avoiding jeepneys and cars. I trodded the stagnant floods that reflected the ghastly graffiti painted on the walls of monstrously dark and broken-down buildings across the street. I shivered. Before me was the face of dying city. My nose burned in inhaling the tough odor of urine, pasted yellow on thew wall and dried over the years. Crooked letters on the wall: Don't pee here. Another sign: I'm sure while reading this, you probably hold your dick while peeing. Rejoice. You hold the future with your hands.

I slowed down, as I got close to Quiapo, the muddy step marks left on the pavement became dry.

I fantasized.

I was a model in Paris, New York, Milan and London; driven in a limo to Waldorf amidst the scent of apples. I cat walked, blocking from my sight all things. Get me out of here, take me away . . . someone.

I returned home at midnight. Tia was nowhere. She left a written note on the dining table. The act in itself seemed absurd and abstract to me. The lost daughter wrote: I went home to my parents.

Odd. I remembered her hating and cussing her parents. She said her mother was addicted to mahjong, her father abused her when she was twelve, her brother was sent to Spain to get away with the murder of his girlfriend. Which he did. How could she choose to return back to them? I thought she changed since the day she sided with student uprisings. Or was it because she carried the child I owned, the blood of my blood, the flesh of my flesh? I shivered . . . I slowly realized I did not love her. But my child, someone had to protect my child.

I went to Dasmarinas Village, to her residence. It was nearly dawn. I stood in front of her family’s mansion; it was very quiet; I whistled. I waited for her to lift the curtains of her room to see me. The security guard approached me. "Hey you, what are you doing there?" he asked.

I became fidgety. "I am hoping to see Tia Valenzuela."

"At a time like this?"

"She is my girlfriend."

The guard took my words with slight amusement. "You are stalking her."

"Oh no, she is carrying our child."

The guard laughed. "Get out of here, you looney son of a bitch."



DEATH OF MORALS



I promised myself to find a job no matter what it took. Isla Fashion House had been temporarily closed due to the People Power uprising. When it reopened after everything settled down, I was the first who knocked on its doors for an appointment. I was turned down.

That hurt me.

I’m gonna show them! How could they? How dare them! How many lines have I said on print and TV commercials? I am the only fad in under wears, beach shorts, shoes, sandals, male shampoos, razors, socks, watches, cars, houses and banks. I am popular. They will not get rid of me that easily. I will show them.

"So you were the protégé of Frank," Arnie Te said as he laid on the couch beside his swimming pool, drinking. I looked into his drink, it was probably Robitussin syrup mixed with shabu, a popular drug in the eighties.

I couldn’t think straight. Fear was enveloping me; I knew I was about to enter a new world, to play a new ball game. I saw dirt and garbage falling down on me. The words of another male model were fresh in my mind. "Do whatever Arnie tells you to do, if he likes what he see in you, you’ve got it made my boy.

I drank before I came here, afraid that I might run if I were sober. This night was important to me. My future depended on this man. I pretended ready for anything. How did I end up this way? I, the top model of Manila had turned this cheap. I stood in front of Arnie, mesmerized at the reflection of the blue swimming pool which rendered my face bright, emphasizing my sparkling eyes. I stood as invitingly as I could. Arnie Te required nothing but looks and body.

I was praying he would not subject me to the humiliation of sex. He could take me as a print model. Perhaps, if I would tell him my plight, he would pity me and offer me the job. I’d be grateful forever if he’d do that. All I needed was to finish my medical degree. I demonstrated my best pose. First impressions counted.

My chest heaved with the rhythm of nervous breaths, it appeared thick for a young man, a result of my serious weight lifting.

It was not yet time to wallow in desperation. It was the moment for effortless seduction, maybe later, I would tell him my situation.

"I know what you want," I winked at him.

His voice was warm and steaming. "What do you want in return?"

"Security," I whispered.

"In what?" he asked. He stood up and went closer to me. He poured a cold lotion on his hands and rubbed it on me with soft gentle strokes. I flinched but I controlled my disgust. I fantasized again.

I was in Paris, London, Milan, Tokyo, New York . . . I felt suffocated. I gave a false moaning.

"I want money and career." I said, trying to hold my tears, I had to be tough, firm, a real man. I choked.

Arnie’s lips were tight. His skin was cold and wrinkled. But whatever I was doing was working.

"Yes, yes," he repeated as his eager hands stroked me, delicately, downwards. I closed my eyes and bit my lips. I continued my fantasies. I was in South Beach Florida, International Male was taking my pictures.



CONFRONTATION



I was surprised to see Ismael Concepcion in my apartment when I opened the door. Ismael was the replacement of Frank David as the major designer of Isla after the latter’s demise. He was the complete opposite of Frank.

He sat on the lone sofa in the dining room, sideways, his legs rested on the leather upholstery, embracing a soft pillow; his fingers caressed his gold necklace. His black hair was pulled in a ponytail, he appeared like a woman with his make-up. The room was slightly illuminated by the glow from the lamp stand on the table, I reached for the switch but he signaled me to stop.

"I prefer to talk in the darkness," he began. He straightened up and sat. The brilliance of his diamond ring shone every time it hit the mediocre light. He straightened out his pants. Another gold chain glittered around his waist.

I stood beside the door, perplexed and tired. I had hardly recovered from my encounter with Arnie Te. My eyes rolled toward the wall. I could not utter a word. I was being torn apart by these disasters after disasters. I kept thinking: Will I be thrown out of the apartment? Are we gonna talk about modeling schedules for a commercial tape, for fitting, a fashion show, a gala, an escort service to some lonely millionaire?

Isamel did not speak for a long time. This must be the last straw. I’ve had enough! I stood but my knees buckled. I wanted to sleep, let me go to sleep. I could not take another blow now. I was too weak to pack up and leave.

I forced my feet to stand. I walked like an ataxic man toward my bed. Give me time to sleep, thanks for everything, those were two great years, Isla gave me more than anything I wanted the cheap provincial boy had gone too far enough. It was okey to fire me, but let me have some sleep until tomorrow.

"How was it with Arnie Te, Roberto Policarpio?" he asked, his eyes unblinking.

I was stupefied. How did he know? Bullshit Arnie, he couldn't keep a secret.

I evaded his question. "What you are talking about?"

"Don't act innocent with me Robert. This is no FAMAS night, if you’ve selectively forgotten what you have just done, spare me two minutes to recall with you what had just happened between you and Arnie Te."

"All right!" I screamed. " I did it, but I did it for my security. I know you'll drop me anytime now." God, I couldn't stand him.

"Robert, I am not here to confront you like a nagging wife. I don't care what you do in your own private moments. But you carry Isla’s name and I am here to protect it from you. Now, don’t be some smart-ass."

I was a glass breaking into tiny pieces, beyond repair."If you came here to tell me to leave this place do so and I will go. Tomorrow."

"You know Robert, you've got guts but it is not enough."

"I learn fast."

"That is something you have to prove."

I was getting sick and wanted to cut this confrontation quick. Now.

"Tell me what you wanna say. I am ready."

His tone changed into a maternal voice. No threat, no insinuation. To me, it was the voice of power, the voice of Makarisogs and the Valenzuelas looking down on one who was not at par with their level of wealth. "You have overlooked one thing Robert. Arnie Te, I, or any other fashion designer here in this country is all the same. We all come from the same breed and turf. You deal with one of us and you deal with all."

I bowed head, lost and caged.

Ronnie moved his eyes around the room. On the wall were posters that paraded my body, my facelessness, my invented faces, all taken at the height of my once lucrative career, all were very promising. On the floor were scattered zoology books, my sports equipments, clothes on the bed, the closet that contained many shoes, my car keys on the coffee table. Ronnie’s eyes embraced all the objects. He waited silently, waited for me to speak some more, he wanted me to herald our difference, he wanted me to beg, to crawl and kneel and cry, he wanted to feel his greatness through my defeat.

He was disappointed with my silence. "Robert?"

"Isla fooled me. It lifted me on a high pedestal and once there, it told me to crawl back. Are you happy now? What else can uplift your ego - do you want me to kneel and beg before I succumb to mud?"

"Who planted these ideas in your mind Robert? Who gave you the right to judge me? Frank was my mentor, we fought hard for our works of art, I never disagreed with him, I fully supported him when he chose you. But I cannot sacrifice the world for you. It doesn’t revolve around you. I have to play the games. If not, parents in clothing business will lose jobs, their children will go hungry."

I was openly crying. "Please, keep me in my job. I’ll do anything, Ismael."

"Robert, it is over for you."

"You did not give me a chance! You all shut the doors to me."

"Your time and age are over, Roberto. Why can’t you put that in your mind? The age of rebellion died alongside Frank David."

"Praise him. Now, I’m back in the mud."

"Who told you to return to mud?"

I stood up. "Will you tell me how to survive without Isla. Isla is the only one I’ve counted

Alex Maskara