Dogeaters (19 page)

Rainer signals Andres to pour me another drink, a gesture which doesn’t go unnoticed. Lolita looks at me with curiosity for the first time all evening, then turns her back on me abruptly, to make a point. “Hi. I’m Joey Sands,” I introduce myself. She turns back around, a fresh cigarette in her hand. “Light my cigarette,” she says, leaning toward me. “Let’s go, Lolita—” Chiquiting’s voice is firm. Lolita pauses for just a second. This time she winks at me. “Good-night, boys—” she says, blowing her famous kisses at everyone in the bar. She turns to look at the German one last time. “Good-night, Rainercito.” He bows for her, a true gentleman.

Tito’s disappeared.
Where is Tito?
Andres keeps asking. Nestor spots a Chinese mestizo who’s just walked in the door. I watch him too—I’ve never seen him around here. He’s wearing tight jeans, a black T-shirt with the faded white SPORTEX logo stretched tightly across his chest. Not bad. Nestor licks his lips, pulls in his fat gut. Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls” blares out from the giant speakers, an old hit that’s played every night, no matter what. Andres calls it his theme song.

I want to laugh. Nestor restrains himself from approaching the boy too soon. I watch him watch the boy watch the crowd. He stands with other onlookers on the edge of the dance floor, while the roomful of men bob their heads and gyrate their hips, letting go with shrieks and whoops of pleasure.

“Is it true? What Lolita said about the perfume factory?” Rainer asks me, his eyes also on Nestor.

“Probably.” I shrug, indifferent to his question and irritated by the song Roy is playing.

“She douses herself from head to toe. She orders perfume by the gallon—it’s true,” Andres says, pursing his lips like a disapproving old dowager.

“We call it
Vagina de Regina
,” Nestor rhymes, shouting to be heard above the music. Mercifully, the Donna Summer song ends. I am glad my break is over, glad to replace Roy at the turntables. I’m in control again, the most advanced DJ in Manila. I’m as advanced as Chiquiting the lizard, Chiquiting who snakes his way through the world, playing both ends against the middle. Let’s clear the air. “Bad Girls” is a sorry anthem for sorry queens. I’m going to put on something different, something dangerous. What Andres calls my psycho music. He thinks it’s all too loud and deranged. I don’t give a fuck. This is for my German’s benefit. I know he’s watching. I know he understands.

I go home with Rainer in the chauffeured BMW the government has provided. It’s past four in the morning. We’ve left Andres behind, nursing his last brandy while Pedro cleans up. We’ve left Nestor sitting in a booth, negotiating with the sullen boy of his dreams. Tito Alvarez is long gone, Lolita safe in the arms of the General, thanks to Chiquiting. Everybody’s happy.

I’ve never been in such a fancy car. I’ve never been to a mansion in Forbes Park. I guess I’ve scored with the German. Next to him, Neil is nothing, some stupid memory. And what is that worth? It is suddenly easy to forget all those months I waited to hear from Neil. Almost a year since that stupid postcard from Las Vegas. I erase him from my mind.

Rainer breaks the silence with a question. I hope he doesn’t pester me with questions all night. “What are shower dancers?” he wants to know. They all want to know. Then they want to see it for themselves.

I wonder what the chauffeur is thinking, if he lives with the other servants at the mansion, if he eavesdrops. I chuckle softly, tell Rainer about Boy-Boy and his job at Studio 54, how the club is located at 54 Alibangbang Street, how the owner is a cop who’s never been to New York. It’s a gold mine, a kinky haven for the likes of has-beens like Nestor. Hungry young boys crowd the stage, lathering their bodies with soap while an audience watches. Some of the boys soap each other, all part of their routine. The shower dancers rinse themselves off with sponges dipped in buckets of water, taking their sweet time. The music’s always good.

“Are they hungry or greedy?” Rainer asks. I look at him, perplexed by his question. “There’s a difference, you know,” he adds, gently.

What a pain in the ass. “Hey, man. How should I know? Boys are hungry, so they perform. Audience pays to sit there, greedy to watch—” I shrug a lot when I’m around him. He wants to know if I’ve ever—I shake my head. “Not my style,” I say.

“Is that all they do? Rub soap on their bodies?”

“I told you. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a dance—” “Do they do it slowly?” The million-dollar question: “Are they hard? Do they come onstage?”

“Some.”

The German is incredulous. “Some? Not all? What about your friend, Boy-Boy? Does he like it? Such a wonderful name, Boy-Boy.” The German stares at me in the darkness. I recognize myself in the absence of light in his eyes, the junkie in him. And something else, something that bothers me. I remember the same doggish look about Neil, how it always made me angry, how my anger always fueled the American’s desire.

Finally, I speak. “Boy-Boy likes it, sure. He can’t help himself.” I chuckle again.

“Tell me what it’s like for him. What he’s told you,” the German pleads.

I sigh, suddenly very exhausted. I try to recall things Boy-Boy has told me. It is very late. “Aren’t we there yet?” I grumble, peering out the car window. When you get right down to it, the German’s turning out to be just like the rest of them, with their stupid questions. “Some are already hard—before they appear onstage,” I begin, wearily. “Some work themselves up in front of the audience—” I wish I were high. If I were high—“Some are ashamed of their erections. They don’t want to be out there, like that—”

“Like what?”

“Ashamed.”

“You mean vulnerable. They touch themselves?”

I hope I’m getting paid for this interrogation. “I told you, rain or shine. That’s what it’s all about. The dance. That’s what the greedy audience pays to see.” I wonder if the driver understands our soft-spoken English. Will the German pay me in dollars? Get me high?

“How long does it take?” His voice is persistent, his gaze probing.

“What? The dance? Fuck, man. It depends—two or three songs. Fifteen minutes maybe. Shit. You wanna go there and see for yourself? I can arrange it. Nestor’s probably there, by now. Lots of foreigners go—you won’t be the only one. Maybe we’ll even run into that other asshole,. Tito Alvarez.”

“When? Right now?”

“Right now, man. You’re asking too many questions. You’re driving me crazy with your questions. Just get me high first, okay? I know where we can get the best stuff, we can go right now, it’s on the way. So I can stay awake. So
you
can stay awake. We’ll make the breakfast show—” I smile a sick, lopsided smile. I touch him lightly on his outer thigh, grazing his pants in the same offhand way the movie star grazed his arm with her silver fingernails.

“What makes you think I do drugs?” the German asks. He leans back against the soft leather upholstery, gray to match the metallic silver color of the car. He shuts his eyes. He seems to age even more in the dark, his face drawn and haggard. I have the sudden urge to kiss his dissipated face, just for an instant, surprising myself with the force of my desire. I recoil.

“No more nightclubs,” he murmurs. “I’ve had enough for tonight. We’ll go later this week—maybe. But tonight—I want to be alone with you tonight.”

“Sure. Whatever, rain or shine.”

“I’m scheduled to be here one week. You’ll stay with me every night, won’t you? I’ll take good care of you.”

“Sure, maybe.” He’s got too many ideas. I want him to back off, just a little. “Is there a swimming pool?” He nods, opening his eyes to look at me. “I want to swim in the pool,” I say, “tonight. As soon as we get there.”

“Yes, of course. We’ll swim in the pool all night, if you want.”

The car slows down as it approaches the wrought-iron gates that lead to a winding driveway. The house still seems far away, hidden behind bushes and trees. I roll down the car window, stick my neck out and take a deep breath. I pretend the whole world is mine—dark, perfumed, and peaceful, the only sounds the purr of the fancy car’s engine and the steady clicking chorus of
kuliglig
in the trees.

The driver honks the horn. A sleepy security guard in blue uniform with a holstered gun unlocks the gates. “Will he kill us with bullets or tetanus?” I joke, pointing to the big, rusty looking gun. “I wouldn’t want to find out,” Rainer says, smiling faintly. Maybe I’m talking too loud. Maybe I’m being too obnoxious.

We are driven past the guard to the front entrance of the magnificent house. The guard salutes us as we drive by. I salute back at him. A light comes on as a female servant opens the front door. She wears a baggy dress as a nightgown, holding it close against her sturdy body in a gesture of modesty. I want to tell her, “Relax, Inday. It’s me—Joey Sands. You can take off your dress and show me your tits—I’m not interested.” An invisible dog barks from somewhere out back. Another dog joins in. The servant turns on the lamps in the sprawling living room, which goes on for miles and miles. She stands there, waiting for us to give her some orders. It must be at least five o’clock in the morning by now. Outside the sliding glass doors, an aviary is visible. I spot four giant parrots with long red tails, and some other birds, all sleeping. A spotlight is turned on to show a still and inviting pool, an oasis surrounded by palm trees. Rainer thanks the servant, dismissing her with a curt goodnight.

In the guest bedroom, we wait for the house to settle once again, snorting a combination of the German’s pharmaceutical cocaine and what’s left of Uncle’s heroin, which I pull out of my pocket. “So, rain or shine. You don’t do drugs, heh-heh.” The German is silent. He pours us two large snifters of cognac, from a bar which has been set up at one end of the room. He seems pleased. “This is perfect, isn’t it, Joey?”

“Sure, Rainercito.”

“Don’t call me that.” He bristles, angry now. I rub coke on my gums, help myself to one of his high-class English cigarettes.

“Okay, okay. Relax, rain or shine. I don’t mean to offend you. We’re in paradise now.” I grin at him, sipping the cognac slowly, like Andres taught me to do. I’m not sure I like it any better than I do that gasoline vodka, but what the fuck. It works—cuts the edge off the coke without putting me to sleep. “Let’s swim,” I say.

“Call me Rainer, please—”

“Sure. Rainer.”

He cocks his head, listening for something. “There—I think they’re asleep.”

“Who?”

“The servants. They’re curious about us, don’t you think?”

“The driver, maybe. Fuck it. Relax, man. Let’s party.”

“That’s the problem with these colonial situations of yours—”

“No problem, man.”

“Rainer.”

“Okay. Rainer—” I pause, letting the sound of his name sink in. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Servants. They end up knowing your secrets, they always end up knowing too much. It’s a kind of insidious power—”

“Servants can’t do shit to you, boss. You’re being paranoid. They’re paid,
di ba
?” I wish we’d quit talking and go swimming. I don’t get what he’s so worked up about.

“Back in my country, I don’t live like this. I live alone, and I like it that way. In a warehouse, with only my cats for company. Don’t you get it, dear boy?”

“I’m not dear boy. The name’s Joey.”

“Did I offend you?”

I’m higher than I’ve ever been, sick to death of his questions. “Sometimes I shit, Rainer. Sometimes I shit all day long. I wonder where all my shit is coming from, especially when I don’t eat. I don’t eat for days, sometimes. How come I shit? It’s scary at first. Then it feels good. Good shit cleans out my system. I get rid of everything.” My gaze meets his, sure and steady.

The German gets up from where he’s been sitting on the bed. Matter-of-factly, he steps out of his rumpled clothes. I avoid looking at his heavy body. I’m aware of his overpowering scent, the scent of sweat, liquor, and too many cigarettes. I undress fast, glad to be out of my own damp clothes. “Let’s go swimming, Joey.” The German says my name carefully, tenderly.

Without hesitating, I dive into the turquoise water of the long pool. The impact of my body hitting the lukewarm water is a soft explosion, the only noise for miles around.

Happily, I float on my back, serene under the canopy of stars in the black sky. A coconut tree bends in a graceful arc over the pool. I could die right now, I feel so good.

The German swims languidly beside me, a big white fish with anxious eyes. “Your father—he was a black American, yes? Andres told me.”

“Andres talks too much,” I say, though I don’t really mind. “He was stationed at Subic Bay—that’s all I know about him. Not his name. Not anything.” I swim away from him.

He swims after me. We do a couple of laps, then drift toward the shallow end, resting our heads against the black and white tiles that line the pool’s edge. “Look,” Rainer points to the high fence that encloses us, a tangle of barbed wire and broken glass on top of cement walls. I say nothing. I’ll poke around later, while he sleeps. See what I can pick up as souvenirs. Next door, the king of coconuts snores in his sleep, wrapped around that skinny wife of his. Wait till I tell Uncle and Boy-Boy. Wait till I tell Andres—“There I was, your rich cousin’s neighbor!” Me, Joey Sands. Andres has never been within three feet of his own relative’s house.

“Who does all this belong to?” I ask the German.

“I was told some rich doctor and his wife, also a doctor. They’re away on vacation. You like it?” Of course I do, who wouldn’t. I shrug in response.

“Will you stay with me, Joey?”

“All week?”

“Yes—night and day. Don’t leave me for one moment.” He stops talking long enough to peer at my face, trying to read my mind. “A government official offered to loan me his private plane. I could call him tomorrow, accept his offer. We’ll take a trip—we’ll have a wonderful time. We’ll fly to the jungle. You’ll show me waterfalls and volcanoes—”

“Waterfalls and volcanoes? You’re crazy. Let’s go somewhere fun. Let’s go to Las Vegas.”

“You’ve never been out of Manila, have you? How terrible. All the more reason, then. We’ll explore your country. Joey—please. Stay with me.”