Dogeaters (18 page)

“It’s okay, Joey. Roy can fill in for a while,” Andres says. He and Chiquiting hover near us, their eyes and ears wide open. Chiquiting interrupts to ask Rainer about his movies, which all sound weird to me. “
Dios mio
, I wish I could see them!” Andres keeps exclaiming. He’s beside himself, acting intellectual and grand, pouring generous drinks. “I saw one of your movies in Tokyo,” Chiquiting brags, “the one about the blond girl and the Negro.” Andres raises one of his bushy eyebrows. “Really? What was it about?” he asks the German, who shrugs. “Did you like it?” Rainer asks Chiquiting. “I was terribly moved,” Chiquiting replies, “even though I didn’t understand a thing.” The German bursts out laughing. Chiquiting looks pleased by his response; he bats his long eyelashes at the foreigner, his eyes glittering with the black eyeliner he sometimes uses. Actually, Chiquiting’s not too ugly. I just wish he wouldn’t shave his eyebrows—his face looks ghostly and unfinished. He thinks he’s divine, a man with glittering eyes and the face of an egg. Always boasting how “advanced” he is, he’s the first guy I know to flaunt three earrings in one ear and cut off all his hair. He’s doing okay, running the most expensive beauty parlor in town. He takes long vacations and likes to come back with his trophies: surfers from Australia, drifters from Amsterdam, one or two farmboys from Iowa. All blondies. That’s what Chiquiting and Andres have in common—they worship blondes.

Last New Year’s Eve, Chiquiting showed off his latest acquisition at CocoRico. Some Dutch boy with ringlets and bad teeth. Chiquiting picked him up in the Tokyo airport, then paid for the Dutch boy’s trip to Manila, just to show him off! Next thing I hear, the Dutch boy and Chiquiting were both beaten up by the President’s son Bambi and his goons, at that boring disco in Makati. Right there, with hundreds of people watching! I wish I’d seen it. The Dutch boy lost his front teeth and was deported a few days later. Chiquiting won’t discuss it to this day. The First Lady is his main client, after all.

Rainer downs shot after shot of chilled vodka, something with peppers in it. He does a funny imitation of the First Lady, who had danced with him earlier at the festival’s opening night party. Andres is aghast. I’m howling with laughter at the sight of a flabby white man pretending to do a dainty cha-cha in high heels. Chiquiting joins in with his
tsismis,
entertaining the German with stories about the First Lady’s “edifice complex,” plus her unnatural obsession with personal hygiene. “Perfume here, there, and
there
—” Chiquiting smirks, pointing delicately to his crotch. I bet it’s all made up, part of Chiquiting’s revenge, but who cares? None of us have had this much fun in a long time.

“They wouldn’t dare show my films regularly in this country,” Rainer complains. “Why did they bother inviting me for one night?” “Who gives a shit,” I say. “All expenses paid—
di ba
?” Chiquiting shakes his head. “Shut up, Joey. You’re really
bastus
.” He apologizes to the German. “Even if we didn’t have censorship, your movies would flop in Manila. They don’t have enough action,” he explains, “and they’re full of unhappy people.” Andres leans over the counter to speak more intently to the German. “Did you know how many workers were crushed to death when part of your film center fell on top of them?” “It’s
your
film center,” the German protests feebly. Andres is panting, quite drunk now. I hope he doesn’t have a heart attack. He ignores the German’s remark. “They were rushing to build that so-called cultural center where your censored films are being shown—for the first and probably the last time—to a big-shot audience,” Andres continues. I am watching him with curiosity. I’ve never known him to be bitter, or to give a shit about a bunch of workmen. “When the festival ends next week, you and the others will fly back to your countries and remember our hospitality with such fondness…We’ll all still be here, of course,” Andres says, “nothing will change. Your brilliant movies won’t make any difference.”

“Opiates of the people,” Rainer murmurs, wearily. What Andres says makes him sad. He holds out his empty glass. “
Talaga
—
sayang
,
ano
?” Chiquiting Moreno agrees, a faraway look in his eyes. We are all silent for a moment.

Here comes that bottle of Stolichnaya again. Andres pours it straight up for the German. I just can’t drink that shit—I don’t care how expensive Andres says it is, or where it comes from, it tastes like chilled gasoline to me. I hold out my empty glass to Andres. “How about another Remy?”

“I apologize for what I said. I didn’t mean to offend you,” Andres says to the German. “You are a guest, after all—”

The German cuts him off with a wave of his hand and a rueful smile. “It’s all right, Mr. Alacran,” he says.

“Cristina Ford flew in yesterday. I’m scheduled to do her hair and the Madame’s, tomorrow morning,” Chiquiting announces, “I guess there’s another big party tomorrow night.” You can never tell which side Chiquiting is on. When it suits him, he’ll go on and on about how fabulous his fabulous friends are, especially the Madame. Then he switches gears on you, with his contempt for everyone.

“I must admit, opening night was impressive,” Rainer says.

“
Siempre
! Built on a foundation of flesh and blood,” Andres snorts.

“You’re jealous because you weren’t invited,” I tease him. Andres starts to say something, looks at the famous German director, then shuts up. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.

“They say ghosts of dead workmen haunt the place,” Chiquiting says, “you can hear them howling, late at night.”

“Perhaps it’s the wind from the sea,” the German suggests.

“The wind?
Puwede ba
—don’t you believe in ghosts?” I ask him, laughing.

“After your festival, the building will stand unused. Wasted, like all her other monuments, those ridiculous resort hotels with their empty rooms.
Di ba
, Chiquiting?” Andres turns to our inevitable source of
tsismis
for confirmation.

The German gives him a cynical smile, which intrigues me. “All haunted by ghosts?” Andres nods.

“Never enough guests,” the German says, “just ghosts.”

Chiquiting squeals with delight. “
Ay
!
La Bamba
! Watch out—
La Dolce Luna
’s here!” Lolita Luna makes her noisy entrance, her Coca-Cola figure poured into a short, tight dress. It’s all cleavage and caramel-colored thighs. She wobbles drunkenly in her high-heeled sandals, the only woman in the crowded room. There’s a genuine crazy bitch—everyone turns around to look at her. We are all aware of her connection to the General; I wouldn’t mind fucking her myself, one of these days. She’s trailed by that has-been Nestor and that phony new muscleman, Tito Alvarez. They’re the center of attention, pushing through the tight crowd to get to the inner circle at the bar, yelling hello to Andres and the purring Chiquiting. Now it’s all wet kisses and loud displays of affection. “Am I the only girl here?” Lolita asks coyly, pretending to look amazed. “We’re all girls,
di ba
?” Chiquiting snaps back. They’re a real comedy act; Tito Alvarez looks annoyed.

What a hot night. One of those nights that will linger in Andres’s memory, something he can talk about for the rest of his life.
Remember the night the German walked in?
I can hear him saying.

Lolita lays a hand possessively on the German’s arm. Her long silver fingernails graze the rough fabric of his shirt sleeve. “Why did you leave the party so early? I was looking for you—” she pouts. Without acknowledging me, she squeezes her formidable body into the cramped space between us. “You look so serious. What are you talking about, Rainercito?” Andres lights her cigarette. “It’s our favorite topic,” Andres says, “
Madame. Alam mo na,
I was just filling him in on all her nasty habits.”

“We call her the Iron Butterfly,” Lolita says to the German.

“I know that,” he says.

She totters on four-inch heels, silver toenails peeking out of her flimsy silver sandals. I appreciate her flamboyant style—she’s dangerous, a dangerous bitch who isn’t just drunk, I can tell. Andres tells me she loves her quaaludes. Can’t do without them. “Rainercito,” she whines prettily, “how could you leave me alone at such an awful party? I thought you were a gentleman…I was so bored!” When Rainer doesn’t respond, she takes a sip of his vodka. “Would you like a drink?” Andres inquires. She doesn’t seem to hear him; she’s only got eyes for the German. Maybe she wants to star in his next movie, like me. “I’m so glad we found you! Did Andres give you all the gory details?” she is saying. “Did you know she has her perfume custom-made in gallon-size bottles?
Talaga
! ‘First Lady,’ it’s called. Pretty clever, huh?”

Nestor is appalled. “Lolita—you’re embarrassing our guest. He’s also the guest of our government—”

She smiles. “Oh, Nestor,
please
…Why don’t you and Tito go dance or something. James Brown! My favorite—Rainercito, would you like to dance?”

Tito Alvarez is furious. “I don’t dance with men.”

“Well, it’s never too late to start!
Di ba
, Chiquiting?” she giggles. She’s obviously got some brains left in her head—she’s already figured Tito’s bullshit out.

She winks at Chiquiting, who exchanges meaningful glances with Andres. “Nestor can teach Tito a thing or two,” Lolita continues, a smirk pasted on her gaudy face. Tito’s eyes harden.

“
Hoy
,
puta
—” He makes a move toward her, but is blocked by the German, who steps in his way.

“Showdown,” I murmur, grinning.

“Have another drink—on the house,” Andres says, pouring Tito a double shot of Remy. Chiquiting steers Tito carefully away from where Lolita stands, swaying. She’s so pretty—all purple pouty lips, purple cheeks, and charcoal-smudged eyes.

“Nestor, you’re so quiet—” she says, turning her attention toward our reigning has-been.

Poor Nestor. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Nestor has refined tastes,” Lolita tells the German, oblivious to the fact that he’s just saved her life. “I think CocoRico’s too tame for him. Is it too tame for you?”

“I’m delighted to be here,” the German answers.

“Nestor would rather be somewhere else—watching his shower dancers perform. He finds them more exciting. Why don’t you take Tito to Studio 54?” She suggests sweetly to Nestor.

Nestor looks grim. “I think you’d better leave Tito alone.”

“
Cuidao
, Lolita. Tito’s a hothead,” Andres warns.

“Did you say
hop
head?” Lolita giggles. “I’m a hophead!”

“You’re a bitch,” Nestor says, so angry he looks like he’s going to cry. Lolita appraises him coolly, then tosses her head in contempt. “I’m a dog in heat,” she corrects him.

Chiquiting Moreno saves the day. “I’ve been to the
real
Studio 54—the last time I went to New York, with Madame’s entourage. You should see the pink lights in the toilets! Sooo flattering!
Naku
, I ran into Bianca Jagger coming out of the men’s room with Halston.
Dios ko,
I was speechless…‘Bianca,’ I said to her, ‘you look fabulous.’ ‘Do I know you?’ she said to me.
Talagang bruja
!
Aba
, I gave her the same look, up and down. ‘Everybody knows me,’ I said, ‘everybody who’s anybody knows Chiquiting Moreno…’”

“
Itsura lang
,” Nestor chimes in, relaxing a little.

“
Bola ka naman
, I don’t believe a word you say,” Lolita says.

“
Ay
,
hija
—that’s your problem,” Chiquiting sniffs. We all laugh, including Lolita, the tension temporarily broken.

“Where’s that Tito? Did I drive my poor escort away?” Lolita scans the crowded dance floor. She pats Nestor on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for being such a bitch, darling.” She lights another cigarette. “Now—what was it we were discussing, Rainercito?”

“Perfume.”

“That’s right! Madame’s custom-made perfume. Hides her smell very well,
daw
…She has her own private perfume factory, tucked away in the rice terraces…Near Baguio,” Lolita adds, making it up as she goes along. “You must visit Baguio while you’re here, Rainercito! The seventh wonder of the world—those rice terraces! Or is it the eighth?
Dios ko
, which is it? Baguio or Banawe? I’ll be more than happy to take you on an excursion. I’m a very good tour guide—
di ba
, Chiquiting?”

“
Very. Hoy
, isn’t it time you went home?” Chiquiting says. I guess the General’s waiting for her, but she couldn’t care less.

“We’ll get a special dispensation from Madame herself, to tour her high-security perfume factory,” Lolita rattles on. “Why, Chiquiting here can arrange it. Chiquiting’s
in
with Madame,
di ba
?”

“I think you’ll need a special dispensation from the Pope himself if you don’t get home soon,” Chiquiting reminds her. She continues to ignore him.

“The perfume factory’s run by—I can’t remember! Who is it run by, Nestor?” Her cigarette burns to an ash in her hand. That’s what I imagine—she’s so high, she doesn’t even know she’s burning.

Nestor shrugs. “An order of blind nuns.”

Lolita whoops with glee. “That’s right! An order of blind nuns—blessed with an incredible sense of smell, and absolute discretion! Did you know Filipinos possess an incredible sense of smell? Why are you smiling like that, Rainercito? Don’t you take me seriously?” Lolita nudges him playfully with her elbow.

“Of course I do.”

She dismisses him with a gesture. “I don’t believe you, Rainercito, but never mind. My friends here will testify to the seriousness of my artistic intent. Did you know I was educated in a convent—”

“Run by blind nuns,” the German finishes her sentence for her. Lolita howls with delight. Her black eyeliner is smeared around the edges, but it only enhances her sultry appeal.

“I’ll take you home,” Chiquiting says to her, quietly.

“I’m not ready to go,” she insists, angry for a moment, then softening again. I’ve been staring at her all night. She avoids my eyes, pretends I’m invisible. I don’t mind. She’s just another wild cartoon I can watch up close. I don’t take her slighting me personally. I’d like to fuck her, one of these days. Then I can say, “My list is complete. I’ve fucked a
bomba
queen.” What do I care—the night is young. She can play her silly games, act like a movie star. She can dance for him, make him laugh, touch him all she wants, but I already know the German’s mine.