Dogeaters (31 page)

He feels the woman prod him gently with her foot, as if to reassure him. The vehicle comes to a complete stop. The silence that follows is eerie, as if the world and they themselves are in suspended animation. Even the insects hush. Joey imagines the doors of the van flung open, the soldiers dragging him out and throwing him on the ground. Lydia sighs; Edgar starts up the motor. Joey almost pisses on himself in relief. He hears a muffled conversation between Tai and Edgar. Lydia joins in.

Joey is hungry. The woman starts humming and singing to herself, a lilting wordless melody, a lullaby. Joey reminds himself these curious strangers are somehow responsible for him. “They’re the only ones who can help you,” Boy-Boy had said. The vehicle swerves, narrowly missing a truck carrying gasoline on the lonely country road. “Goddam gasoline,” Edgar curses. Tai laughs. Lydia keeps singing. Joey drifts back into his nervous sleep. “
Pare
—I think he was carrying diesel,” Tai jokes.

“Who gives a shit—he almost killed us,” Edgar says. Joey’s body twitches from time to time, with the force and terror of his dreams.

Just after sunrise they stop, somewhere up high, where the air is cool and thin. Joey is helped out of the van by Tai and Lydia. He rubs his bleary eyes. Up ahead, there is a bamboo hut with a thatched roof, built to blend in perfectly with a grove of trees. Joey feels enveloped by intense greenness, the dizzying effect of the lush vegetation and dense foliage that surrounds them. He shivers from the chill of the morning air. “It’s invigorating, isn’t it?” Lydia says to him, breaking into a wide smile. For an instant, she is almost beautiful. Joey grins shyly back at her.

A toothless old man appears in the doorway of the hut, greeting Edgar in a nasal, clicking dialect. The old man’s voice is whining and insistent. Edgar listens carefully, nodding from time to time. Making signs for the others to do the same, he follows him into the hut.

There is another man there, squatting on the dirt floor. He is middle-aged like Edgar, and carries an M16 slung over his shoulder. He nods curtly at Edgar, and spits some of the betel nut he’s been chewing on the ground. He is not introduced. He calls Edgar “Boss.” He will drive the vehicle back down the mountains. He leaves immediately, without saying good-bye. It seems to Joey that for them, this is routine, this dangerous journey back and forth, from city to mountains to jungle, over precarious and awesome terrain. With a sinking feeling, he hears the engine start up. Lydia sees the look on his face. “It’s not a bad hike,” she says to Joey, amused. “There are trails.”

The old man squats comfortably on the ground; they follow suit. He addresses Edgar in the singsong rhythms of his dialect. Joey notices his broad, calloused feet, toes splayed out, caked with white dust. “He wants to know if we’re hungry,” Edgar interprets. Joey nods, eagerly. Edgar turns back to the old man, responding with uncanny fluency.

The old man leaves and returns with strips of dried, salted meat. There is water from a nearby stream, and sweet, small, overripe bananas. Joey wonders about the tough meat, decides not to ask. He devours the food while everyone watches. He guesses he is chewing on the flesh of a
carabao
; he is too hungry to care. The old man grunts with amusement as Joey finishes the last of the bananas. He makes a sign. Edgar jumps up. “Time to go,” he says.

The old man guides them up steep, winding mountain trails, his toes gripping rocks and stones with the sure and expert grace of a goat. Joey sweats and pants with the effort of keeping up; overhanging branches from trees and prickly, serpentine vines cut into his face and arms. He shudders, imagining he sees snakes coiled and waiting. The heat is sweltering by midmorning, the air humming with dragonflies and mosquitoes. Joey’s exposed flesh is stung; insects dive into his hair. He slaps at invisible creatures. The sweat dripping from his forehead stings his eyes. He imagines with horror how, without warning, leeches will drop on him from the wet foliage, like dew. Birds screech and whistle; Joey imagines they are pterodactyls from some movie, gliding smoothly by.

They trudge and stumble up to where the trail seems to end, but the impatient guide urges them on, through a thicket of giant ferns and more trees. The sun casts a shimmering path of dusty light through the shadows of the humid jungle. They walk in silence, Joey way in the back, struggling to keep the rest of them in sight. At one point, Lydia slows down to wait for him. She touches his arm, pointing out two monkeys peering down at them with insolent faces, perched on their leafy trapeze. Their long, glorious tails curl up like plumes.

Joey is overwhelmed by a sense of fear and wonder. His life in Manila is only a memory now, the faces of Andres and Uncle blurred and distant.

A clearing suddenly emerges out of the tangle of twisted vines, the moist blades of leaves and prehistoric trees. There is a camp, a smoldering fire. A barefoot boy runs up to them. Joey stands still, frozen by the sea of faces turned toward him, wary yet curious, young men’s faces. “Lydia!” one of them calls out. The woman embraces him, says something in greeting no one else can hear. The old guide squats down by the fire. Lydia and the man look back at Joey. Tai and Edgar disappear into a solitary tent propped between two trees. The barefoot boy offers Joey water.

Tai and Edgar emerge from the tent with a wiry man and a beautiful woman. The man carries an M16 across his back, and holds his hand out to Joey. He is introduced as a priest. “Father Francisco,” Edgar calls him. “Call me Tikoy,” the priest grins. He and the beautiful woman are dressed in drab colors. The woman is wan and thin. She is embraced warmly by Lydia, then led to where Joey is standing. “My cousin,” Lydia says proudly. “She calls herself Aurora.” The woman glances sharply at Lydia. She reprimands her. “You shouldn’t have said that—” Lydia is dumbfounded, embarrassed. She turns abruptly and walks away. The beautiful woman’s dark face softens. She will apologize to her cousin Clarita, later. Her eyes remain fixed on Joey. “I want to know about my father’s killer,” she says. He suddenly recognizes her face.

Weeks later, when she has grown to trust him, she will describe the absurd terms of her release from Camp Meditation, how she was granted a pardon by the President on condition she remain in permanent exile, how she was escorted to the airport by a military convoy with wailing sirens. Her plane ticket is paid for by her mother, she says with bitterness. Her mother and sister accompany her to the airport; her mother spends the entire time mute and dry-eyed, holding on to her terrified sister. She has not heard from them since. She hopes they have already left the country, thinks it will be better for them if they have.

She herself returns home as soon as possible, under an assumed identity, with the help of powerful friends. She arranges her journey back into the mountains, to the refuge provided by her comrades. She laughs sadly when she uses the term “comrade.” There is a tinge of irony in everything she says. Except for her cousin Clarita, her comrades are her only family, now. “I claim responsibility for everything I do,” she says to Joey.

They will get drunk together on cane liquor one night. She cries while Joey describes his mother, what he remembers of her. She reproaches herself, and apologizes for being sentimental. She will not cry when she describes how her lover was captured while she was in detention, or how her unnamed baby girl was born premature and dead. They are together all the time. She teaches him how to use a gun.

M
Y MOTHER HOSTS A
farewell luncheon for the American consul’s wife, whom she despises. With the help of our cook, Pacita, she plans an innovative menu combining American and Filipino dishes. She and Pacita shop the day before the luncheon; they go up and down the air-conditioned aisles of the SPORTEX Stop &Shop, the awesome new supermarket located on the first level of the SPORTEX complex.

“Made in de USA!” The cheerful cashier jokes as she totals the enormous cost of my mother’s purchases: small cans of Libby’s succotash, Del Monte De Luxe Asparagus Spears, two bottles of Hunt’s Catsup, one jar of French’s Mustard, Miracle Whip Sandwich Spread, Kraft Mayonnaise, Bonnie Bell Sweet Sliced Pickles, Jiffy Peanut Butter, packages of Velveeta, party-size bags of Cheez Whiz, one box of Nabisco Ritz Crackers, and several boxes of Jell-O gelatin in lime and cherry flavors for my brother Raul. At the last minute, my mother throws in one canister of Johnson &Johnson’s Baby Powder. “For me,” she says to the puzzled Pacita.

Her local items include: one large bottle of Rufina
patis
, one gallon of Kikkoman Soy Sauce, several bushels of fresh
kalamansi
, one head of lettuce, two cases of TruCola, several cloves of garlic, three pounds of tomatoes, one pound of dried
dilis
, one jar of shrimp
bagoong
, one twenty-pound sack of rice, and several pounds of frozen, boneless
bangus.

My father is home in bed, recovering from his first heart attack. A mild case, Dr. Ernesto Katigbak assures us. My mother is not convinced. My father is still a young man, why is he sick like this? Dr. Katigbak leaves our house, and I hear my mother speak in a harsh, accusing tone to my father. “You eat too much,” she says, “it’s going to kill you…” She complains the only exercise he gets, besides fooling around, is sitting on his ass, gambling long hours at the poker table. “I’m too young to be a widow,” she declares, with a tremor in her voice.

He tells her she gets on his nerves, she should leave him alone to rest if she really wants him to get better. He ends by asking her: “And what do you do all day for exercise, except move your mouth up, down, and sideways, making
tsismis
with your queers?”

My mother exits grandly, slamming doors behind her. The door to her bedroom, the door to her sitting-room, and so on. I don’t see her again until her guest of honor arrives.

The American consul is being transferred to Saudi Arabia. His wife is not thrilled with the situation. Howard and Joyce Goldenberg are both Jewish, from Pasadena. Their daughter Trixie is enrolled at my convent school as a special student. The nuns excuse her from attending Catechism class, Holy Mass, and Benediction at our chapel; she is treated with cautious deference, like a Martian or a person with a contagious disease.

Mr. Goldenberg is a very tall man with curly hair and rumpled good looks. Absentminded and friendly, he is popular with everyone. His wife Joyce suffers two nervous breakdowns while she’s in Manila. She is sure they are being transferred to Saudi Arabia as part of an anti-Semitic conspiracy. She talks about anti-Semitism so often, I finally ask my father what it means.

“Ay
,
que
cute!” Pucha moans in feigned despair, every time Mr. Goldenberg walks by us toward the living room, where the adults spend most of their time playing cards, munching crackers, and drinking large amounts of alcohol. He is amused and flattered by Pucha’s adolescent flirting, and never patronizes her. My parents tease him mercilessly. Only Mrs. Goldenberg is flustered and annoyed, intimidated by my nubile cousin’s blatant desire for her mild-mannered husband.

Older men are one of Pucha’s preoccupations. The summer before the Goldenbergs leave, my parents invite her to spend a week up in Baguio with us in an imitation Swiss chalet they are renting for the summer with the consul and his wife. Baguio is wonderfully cool, its elevated mountain terrain dotted with forests of pine trees. In Pucha’s imagination it’s the closest thing to America. We are both eager to show off our pastel orlon cardigan sweaters, which we wear draped over our shoulders, under single strands of tiny pearls. Pucha’s pearls aren’t real, mine are. No one can tell the difference. We affect the casual teenage glamour of Gloria Talbott in our favorite movie,
All That Heaven Allows.
Trixie Goldenberg wears jeans and her father’s old shirts. Pucha thinks Trixie’s a lesbian. She and Trixie just don’t get along. When Pucha’s in Baguio, Trixie Goldenberg spends as much time as possible away from the summer house.

All week, Pucha and I find everything unbearably romantic. We shiver in the alien cold weather; we inhale the sharp scent of evergreen that permeates the thin air. While the adults shop for souvenirs at Baguio Market or go drinking at the Baguio Country Club, Pucha and I practice tongue-kissing in front of the rustic fireplace. “Quick,” Pucha says, “before that Trixie comes home.” She is always Ava Gardner or Sandra Dee, and always insists I’m Rock Hudson. The adults return late in the day bearing gifts: carved ashtrays and bookends ornamented by Igorot fertility gods with erect penises or drooping breasts, woven baskets and cloth depicting lizards, fish, and other fertility symbols. Pucha giggles when she sees them. My mother and Mrs. Goldenberg put their purchases away and bring out the alcohol for cocktails before dinner. Mr. Goldenberg shows my father how to build a proper fire. Trixie shows up for dinner late and pointedly ignores us. “Where have you been, young lady?” her mother asks, but goes back to her conversation with my mother without waiting for an answer.

I have started menstruating. To celebrate, I cut off all my hair.

Pucha examines my head, frowning with displeasure. “You look like a boy! You look terrible—like Joan of Arc! Who cut your hair?”

“Uncle Panchito.”

She gives me one of those I-feel-sorry-for-you looks, just like her mother. “
Ay
,
prima
! I don’t want to be seen with you! How could you have let that man touch your hair? He’s a dressmaker: Why didn’t you just get a perm? Perms are adorable. Look at you—you look like a plucked chicken—”

“It’s the rage. Audrey Hepburn. Everyone’s doing it, in Hollywood and Rome.”

Pucha’s unimpressed. “Oh, sure. And when was the last time you were in Hollywood or Rome?”

“
Sabrina
—we saw it two months ago, remember? Starring Audrey Hepburn and William Holden.”

“
Ay
,
puwede ba
! Audrey Hepburn’s flatchested.”

“She’s beautiful,” I stammer, blushing.

“Boring,
prima
, boring,” Pucha groans. She stresses the word
boring
, one of Trixie Goldenberg’s favorite expressions. It has replaced
corny
as the most frequently used English word in my cousin’s limited vocabulary.