Dogeaters (24 page)

“Once again, I must remind you, darling—the lease is in my name.”

She storms out of the living room and locks herself in the bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom is white, the walls and ceiling mirrored. The white tub is sunken, the floor around it carpeted with a plush white rug. The effect is both antiseptic and sexual. The bathroom is her favorite room, her hideaway. The sight of her naked body in the mirrors excites her. Transfixed by her own image, she caresses herself, then remembers the old man waiting in the other room.

Disgusting old shit. She can imagine only too well what he’s up to—stuffing her panties in his pocket, one more souvenir of one more disgusting situation. They were all the same, these old men. Even Severo Alacran, with all his high-class manners and expensive cologne. Carrying around her used panties as if they were a fetish, like a piece of her they had carved off, like her skin. She offered them some glimpse of immortality—she knew this in her own stoned, fuzzy, instinctual way.

Lolita Luna has one more option. One of Severo Alacran’s partners has approached her about an unusual movie deal, what he refers to as “experimental art films.” These art films would involve lengthy close-ups of Lolita Luna’s vagina, shot by professional cameramen in living color and in a variety of simulated violent settings. “We will only allude to violence,” the man reassures her. Her vagina teased by the gleaming blade of a knife, for example, or perhaps a stubby black pistol. Or by the edge of a samurai sword, in a script featuring grinning Japanese villains. When the movie star looks offended, the producer hastens to calm her. “Simulated and suggestive—fear as an erotic stimulant—that’s all we’re after. You’ll be surprised how much people will pay to see you,
La Dolce Luna!
It’s not a movie for the average taxi driver, of course. He could never afford the price of admission. This is art! Think of your European counterpart! If you wish, there will be no actual penetration,” he adds blithely.

She is asked to name her price, a request which intrigues her. “You’re our biggest star after all,” the producer says. She wonders if Severo Alacran is involved, and decides not to ask. She is told the movies are privately screened for select audiences. “We only use top directors and performers,” the producer continues. “Max Rodriguez and Nestor Noralez have already agreed to direct our projects.” Lolita is stunned by the information. The producer tells her to take her time making a decision, and leaves her an engraved business card with his name and phone number.

More shoes, more drugs, her own ticket out of the country. Her debts paid off, once and for all. Her four-year-old son’s future finally insured. Her child lives with her parents in Zambales. Strict Catholics, Lolita’s mother and father have not spoken to her in years. They are ashamed of their daughter and refuse to see her popular movies. Her mother claims the child as her own. Lolita sends home generous monthly stipends for her son, who is clearly mestizo. She cannot decide who the father is—maybe the Englishman who married Daisy Avila, maybe some American. It’s not important. She loves her son and is convinced he is better off with her parents. Lolita has not seen him since his second birthday, as her mother’s grim countenance makes all visits unbearable.

She is fascinated by her dark and brazen image in the mirror, by the way her flesh glows in the midst of such impersonal splendor. The General bangs his fist against the locked door, twisting the brass knob and calling her name. He apologizes and pleads with her, promising her a plane ticket one moment, then threatening to kick in the door when she doesn’t respond.

The old man’s voice is hoarse with shouting. Lolita Luna tears herself away from her mirrors. “All right, all right, calm down, Nicky!” she shouts back. She hesitates, her hand on the doorknob, then she dismisses her fears. The General is just another old man. She opens the door.

I
N GIRLIE ALACRAN’S DREAM
, the caddies are dark, barefoot boys with reddish-gold streaks in their long, uncombed hair. They live in caves beneath the palatial country club, which is perched on a cliff overlooking a jungle of banana,
narra
, tamarind, coconut, and indigo trees. Wild orchids, red and pink
gumamela
flowers sprout miraculously from the clusters of serpentine vines that cover the jungle floor.

It is dusk when the boys creep out stealthily from their subterranean shelter. The unsuspecting guests sip rum cocktails on the open-air verandah; they wear bathing suits with fluffy towels draped around their necks. Languid in their rattan lounge chairs, they gaze blankly at the spectacular jungle view, not talking to each other.

Everyone is present who matters: Uncle Severo and Auntie Isabel, cousin Baby, Girlie’s dead mother Blanca, her blind father Pacifico and fat brother Boomboom, her past lover Malcolm Webb, even the President and the First Lady. They are all sitting in separate areas, unaware of one another, when the front flap of cousin Baby’s maternity bathing suit is blown up by a sudden gust of wind, revealing the bright yellow beach ball concealed underneath. “That’s all there is,” cousin Baby starts singing. “Sprinkled with stars / that’s all there is / sprinkled with shining stars!” She closes her eyes, repeating the inane lyrics with rapt concentration, her face glowing and ecstatic. “Santa Rosario, Santa Rosario, where is your husband?” Malcolm Webb asks, running up to her. He is wearing a waiter’s jacket and bow tie over his swimming trunks, and carries a tray of assorted drinks. When there is no response from cousin Baby, he climbs up on the railing and dives off into the jungle, the tray of drinks still balanced on one hand.

Girlie’s blind father taps a rhythm with his cane. “Sprinkled with little / tiny stars,” he joins in the singing, his voice feeble and strained. He is almost drowned out by cousin Baby’s unwavering soprano.

“Tiny / tiny stars / sparkling stars!” sings an enthusiastic chorus led by the President and First Lady. They love to sing, and the First Lady is radiant with happiness. The song ends abruptly; they force Girlie to kneel on the edge of the verandah. She is blindfolded, her hands tied behind her back. “You frauds! You chickens!” Girlie screeches. Cousin Baby starts to sing again. “Fried little stars / fried little chickens,” Baby warbles, and her sweet, lilting refrain soars above the vast green abyss of the jungle below.

When they attack, the caddies are armed with golf clubs. They swing their deadly weapons, striking anyone in their path with sleek and shiny putters, number-two irons and number threes, clubs with massive, wedge-shaped, wooden heads. “I GONNA KILL YOU WID YOUR OWN SHIT! ARNOLD PALMERS! JACK NICKLAUS!” the dark boys roar in unison. The leader grabs Girlie by the hair. He rips off her blindfold so she can see what is happening to her. “You must be mistaken,” she says, meekly. She says this several times, until she realizes it is a waste of time, no one is listening. She begs and pleads for her life while the growling boy drags her around the verandah by her hair. She is a carcass, a prize trophy, but he is unsure about killing her and Girlie senses it. “I don’t even like golf!” she yells, in desperation.

An even younger caddy, still a child, threatens her with a set of Ben Hogans. He picks up the heavy golf bag with ease, swinging it up high and aiming it at Girlie’s head. “It’s my brother you want!” she cries. “Not me! Not me!” She is a coward and a traitor, she doesn’t want to die. In a final, pathetic attempt at saving herself, Girlie arches her back and thrusts her hips in the air, offering her body to the surly boys. They are not interested. It is the main thing Girlie will remember about the dream.

Her Saturdays are spent idly, sitting on the terrace of the Monte Vista with a group of young men. She has not been able to reach her married lover by telephone, and Girlie Alacran is irritated.

“Who’s that?” Tito Alvarez cranes his neck to get a better view of a woman running across the lawn. Boomboom Alacran screws up his nose in distaste and looks away. Joselito Sanchez smiles. “Manicurist. She works downstairs in the salon,” he says.

“
Achay
.” Pepe Carreon dismisses her with a wave of his hand. “You can do better than that, can’t you?” he teases the actor. Boomboom Alacran giggles.

“Oooh—who’s that?” Tito Alvarez whistles softly. He has just won the first round of golf with his friends, and he’s exuberant, itchy to get laid. Almost anyone will do. The movie actor, strokes his new black mustache, assessing the middle-aged foreigner in the short tennis outfit.

“
Kano
, I’m sure,” Pepe says, not bothering to look.

“Wow,” Tito murmurs in admiration, “nice boobs.” He hisses at the foreigner, then winks at her knowingly. The woman hesitates, embarrassed. She looks around nervously for someone she knows, but the only other people present are a table of little children with their
yayas
and the waiters hovering nearby. The matron walks hurriedly past Tito’s table, pretending not to notice him.

“Watch it,
pare.
She’s the wife of the German ambassador,” Joselito warns him.

“So what. I can tell she’s hot for me.” Tito grins.

“You should shave off that dumb mustache,” Joselito says, “it doesn’t suit your image. I thought you wanted to start playing good guys in the movies—”

“Women love it.” Tito turns to Girlie Alacran. “Doesn’t a little beard feel good…down there?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Girlie is unable to meet his eyes.

“This guy is really something,” Joselito complains, indicating the smug actor to the rest of the table. “Remember that French model I was showing around Manila?” Pepe Carreon nods. The expression on Joselito’s face is a combination of admiration and disbelief. “I invite this guy along, one day—and you know what he says to her right after I introduce them? ‘HEY! YOU WANT TO FUCK ME TONIGHT?’ That’s it, man—no
arte
, no class, no style!”

The men start snickering. “And what did she say?” Pepe Carreon asks.

Joselito Sanchez cracks up. “She said: ‘The bed’s not big enough!’”

“He’s got it all wrong,” Tito Alvarez insists, happy to be the center of attention. “She said: ‘NO THANK YOU, monsieur. The bed’s not big enough!’”

“
Ay!
I’m hungry—” Girlie Alacran announces, yawning.
Daw
, she says to herself, unimpressed with Tito’s boasting. An image of her own wide mouth gapes open in her mind, the expression DAWWW stretched out to convey her unspoken contempt for what has just been said.

Pepe Carreon snaps his fingers and a waiter appears. More drinks are ordered, a bowl of peanuts for Girlie. Pepe lights a cigarette. “The man confessed,” he says, suddenly. His eyebrows go up and down in Tito’s direction, to emphasize the significance of what he is saying. “
Alam mo na, brod.
The methodology of our Urban Warfare Unit—
talagang
effective!” Pepe looks pleased with himself.

“What are you talking about?” Girlie asks, sitting up straight in her chair.

She is ignored. Tito smirks, helping himself to Pepe’s pack of imported cigarettes. “I told you—it would all work out,
di ba
?”

“What are you talking about?” Girlie repeats, louder. Tito smiles one of his seductive smiles. He slips a hand casually under the table, resting it on her thigh. “Shhh,” he says, in a mock whisper.

Girlie turns to Pepe, who finally speaks. “Just a guy. Someone we’ve been after for a long time.” He is annoyed. He finds her presence an intrusion, as he does with all women. Barely able to keep up a civil front, Pepe avoids looking at Girlie. He wonders if Boomboom is responsible for inviting her along.

The drinks and a bowl of peanuts are set on their table by a distraught waiter. He hands Tito a note from someone requesting his autograph. Tito gladly obliges, then waves the waiter away when he is finished. Girlie picks at the oversalted peanuts while the men gulp down their drinks.

“Where’s Baby?” Tito asks Pepe, with a sly look. Pepe shrugs and looks bored, his standard reaction when any reference is made to his pregnant wife. “Home asleep—where else! I never knew a woman could spend so much time in bed—sleeping.”

“You don’t know about women,” Tito Alvarez tells him, moving his hand further up Girlie’s thigh. “They need TLC, man…
Alam mo ba ang TLC?
Tender Loving Care! Every day of the week, like brushing your teeth. I guarantee the results!”

“My cousin’s expecting, any day now—” Girlie mutters, pushing the actor’s hand away from her crotch as discreetly as possible. She isn’t sure why she doesn’t just get up and leave. The men wouldn’t even miss her.

“I know that,” Tito snarls at her, “everyone knows that!” His flushed face betrays his anger, but he grins hastily, flashing gleaming white teeth. Girlie is disgusted by and afraid of him, but it is as if her body has grown heavy with fatigue and become part of the chair; she cannot move. She fights with herself to get up, to tear herself away.

Boomboom giggles again. A large round version of his sister, he is a pink-faced mestizo with light eyes and thinning hair, his enormous paunch protruding under the tight T-shirt he wears over his Madras-plaid bermuda shorts. You are a big baby, Girlie wishes she could say to her brother. A man with soft, pudgy hands, Boomboom’s never worked a day in his life; he lives off a monthly allowance. Girlie gazes at her brother and wonders if she is any better. She quickly finishes her drink.

She takes a deep breath and pushes herself out of her chair. “I have to make a phone call,” she says, to no one in particular. Without excusing herself, she walks away from the table. She almost starts running but stops herself, relaxing only when she has passed the sign by the guard post which reads:

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE MONTE VISTA

GOLF &COUNTRY CLUB

MEMBERS & GUESTS ONLY

PLEASE DEPOSIT ALL FIREARMS HERE

The men watch with some curiosity as Girlie walks away, taking in the sway and curve of her generous hips, the angry click of her high heels against the tiled floor. “Your sister is sexy,” Tito Alvarez observes, winking at Boomboom this time. “Ever tried her?”

Boomboom’s face remains bland and impassive. “Your sister’s pissed off,” Joselito Sanchez remarks. No one pays attention to him.