Dogeaters (5 page)

She clenches her hands into small fists. As a child, the servants had painted her nails with iodine that burned her mouth every time she chewed them. When that failed, they rubbed her fingertips with fiery chili peppers. Then, the sweating started. Dark patches of salty sweat under her arms. “She sweats like a man!” her mother exclaims, horrified. Baby wears pads under her arms to protect her clothes. She is nine years old. She fears that one day the sweating won’t stop, that the perspiration will travel across her chest and back, working its way down, soaking her underwear and skirt, dripping in puddles at her feet. She lives in perpetual shame, and learns early how to make herself sick enough not to have to go to school and confront the cruel stares of the nuns and her classmates.

Dr. Ernesto Katigbak is brought in to examine her. “It’s plain and simple anxiety,” he tells her parents. “The child must learn to relax…” To control her perspiration he prescribes fragrance-free powders, astronomically expensive powders they order from a pharmaceutical firm in California.

Months later, Baby’s fingers and toes develop an itchy rash. The rash develops into hideous, watery blisters and open sores. Isabel Alacran is sure her daughter has contracted leprosy, and won’t go near her. With her feet swollen and deformed, wrapped in bandages, Baby is forced to spend most of her time in bed or in a wheelchair. She is unable to go to school for more than a year. Dr. Katigbak sends Baby to his wife Emilia, a skin specialist. “I’m just a heart surgeon, after all,” he confesses. Severo Alacran threatens to sue him.

Diagnosed as suffering from an extreme case of nonspecific tropical fungus, Baby is bathed daily in ultraviolet solutions that leave a vaguely sulphuric, medicinal smell on her raw skin. The effect is cool, and strangely soothing. The servants paint Baby lavender twice a day, wrapping her hands and feet afterward with fresh bandages. Baby lives in her bed and wheelchair until after her tenth birthday—bathed, changed, and fed by a succession of servants and nurses who don’t seem to mind the sight and smell of pus. She reads comic books voraciously, and movie magazines. She memorizes all the lyrics to the latest Tagalog songs in the cheap little “Song Hits” booklets the nurses bring her every week. She sings earnestly, making the nurses laugh. With her or at her, it doesn’t matter; it is the first and only time Baby Alacran is indulged by anyone. Her parents sometimes make a show of checking on her progress, standing awkwardly in her doorway on their way to a nightclub. “And how do you feel today?” her father would inquire, cheerfully.

“The same,” Baby would always answer.

“What is this nonspecific fungus?” Her parents would ask Dr. Emilia Katigbak impatiently. “How much longer before it goes away?”

“It could dry up and vanish tomorrow. It could last a few more months. Think of your daughter’s body as a landscape, a tropical jungle whose moistness breeds this fungus, like moss on trees,” the doctor explains.

Six months later, the wheelchair is gone. The sores dry up, but the sweating and nervousness persist. Baby’s nail-biting habit returns.

Baby cannot help herself; her hand creeps up to her face, touching her cheek. It moves toward her mouth, rests there. She wonders if she will hear the phone ring, even here, in this room. “Why don’t we compromise?” she hears her father saying. “Why don’t you at least finish high school? You only have a few weeks left to go before you graduate, then you can think of marriage…”

Her mind goes blank. Baby starts to chew.

Exactly three days later, on her way to school, Baby Alacran elopes with Pepe Carreon. It’s been carefully planned by Pepe, down to the last detail; the chauffeur and Baby’s
yaya
quietly paid off. Baby disappears with her lover to an undisclosed retreat in Baguio. A note is sent to her parents, setting out terms. Baby reveals that she is pregnant.

In her absence, the scandalized nuns have expelled Baby from school. Her mother is placed under sedation by Dr. Ernesto Katigbak. Her father retreats alone to his coconut plantation. More days pass, another note is sent. A phone call is made, late at night: “Your daughter is alive and well,” says a male voice. Rumors fly around Manila. The tabloids scream:

BABY KIDNAPPED BY COMMIE INSURGENTS!!!

General Nicasio Ledesma visits the Alacran mansion to offer aid and sympathy. His wife Leonor offers to make novenas. Baby’s paternal grandmother, Doña Serafina Alacran, suffers a mild heart attack. When she recovers, she refuses to leave the hospital from shame.

A wedding is hastily arranged. It is Baby’s small triumph, her only revenge. Everyone who is anyone is invited. The bride wears a spectacular white gown of silk and Chantilly lace, designed with an empire waist to conceal her swollen belly. A tulle veil embroidered with seed pearls crowns her head. Her long black hair has been brushed away from her face, which seems unblemished and almost pretty in the soft evening light. Her gaze is steady and serene.

It is sunset. The Archbishop presides. The crowded cathedral is hot, the air thick with frankincense and the fragrance of assorted perfumes. In the front row, Baby’s grandmother Doña Serafina threatens to faint. She wears black, a disapproving frown on her powdered face. The altar is ablaze with candles, the music solemn and ethereal. A hush falls over the crowd. Someone coughs. Others crane their necks to get a better view. It’s the wedding of the decade. The women fan themselves and pray, rosaries of onyx and rosewood wound loosely around their wrists. The bride’s mother stands erect and dry-eyed, her rage plain for all to see. The groom wears an ill-fitting tuxedo. His bewildered family are lost in the row of spectators jammed against the walls of the church. General Ledesma stands next to him, stiff and impressive in his formal uniform, his chest covered with medals. He is Pepe Carreon’s best man.

Severo Alacran beams in the aisle where he waits for his daughter. He offers an elbow to Baby, who staggers under the weight of her belly, her opulent gown, the enormous bouquet of flowers she is carrying: White lilies, white roses, white orchids. “It’s bad luck,” Doña Serafina mutters to herself. No one hears her.

The bride takes her father’s arm. The ringbearer, a frightened little boy of six in velvet jacket and knickers, stumbles on the edge of the bride’s endless veil. A murmur runs through the crowd. The boy catches himself, clutching the satin pillow bearing two gold wedding bands. The slow procession begins.

I
MAKE IT DOWN
to CocoRico around four in the afternoon, before it officially opens. Andres looks surprised. “Oy, Joey.
Kumusta
? What brings you here so early?” He asks me, distracted. Behind the counter, he wipes his precious liquor bottles and glasses, rearranging them over and over again; Andres is never satisfied. “HURRY UP!” He suddenly yells to the unseen Pedro. “It’s almost five o’clock! What do you think I’m paying you for! The toilets are a health hazard! Do you think I’m running a cheap whorehouse?” Andres looks at me meaningfully, then frowns when I start laughing. “
Baboy
,” he sneers, calling me a pig. I blow him a kiss.

I’m here early because I have nowhere else to go. I slip off my sunglasses, sliding into my usual stool at the bar by the cash register. I am facing the empty dance floor, painted black—my idea and my creation. In a few hours the small black square will be packed with hundreds of gyrating men and boys. Giant speakers crowd the space, but they look good—beautiful, black, and cool. Andres balked at first—he hates to part with money—but I bought them hot from some American guy with connections at the PX. Andres was pleased with the bargain.

“What a horrible day. I’m melting,” Andres complains, fanning himself with the latest issue of
Celebrity Pinoy.
He speaks with a Spanish lisp, his high-pitched voice constantly wavering on the brink of hysteria. He’s a bundle of exasperation and wrecked nerves, a genuine Manila queen. He rolls his eyes and places one hand at the base of his throat. “This heat is going to kill me. Make it stop—
Dios mio
, I wish it would rain! Typhoons bring my blood pressure down.
Puñieta!
If things don’t improve, I’ll have to see a doctor—”

“You need to stop being so cheap and have the air conditioner fixed. And stop eating so much,” I add, watching him gobble roasted peanuts. His mouth never stops working; he gulps down handfuls at a time, and when the peanuts are gone he starts on some Cheez Curls.

He ignores my comments. “My blood is boiling from shouting so much at that idiot! He can’t do anything right. I never should’ve hired that savage—to think I sent him to that missionary school! I should’ve listened to my instincts. Here I am, an Alacran—always trying to be charitable—”

“Pedro’s okay. He works for nothing,” I remind him, sipping my Coke. Ice-cold, the way I like it. Andres pours me a shot of white rum, his face flushed. “He’s Igorot—what did I expect?” he asks himself, muttering in Tagalog and Spanish. “He eats dogmeat.” I’ve heard all this before, and throw one of my cassettes into the spectacular sound system. James Brown grunts “I Got the Feeling,” drowning out Andres’s litany of complaints. “I should’ve known better, Joey. You know me. I’m fussy. CocoRico isn’t just some disco,
di ba?
It’s my home away from home—and I can’t run a place I’m ashamed of! It’s a reflection on my family name…”

There he goes again, never letting you forget he’s an Alacran. Andres Alacran the Queen of Mabini—a relation from the poor side of the family, forced to earn his living. I nod automatically to please Andres, who pours me another shot of rum. I savor its burning sensation on my tongue, feeling snug and fed like a baby. When Andres gets going with one of his tirades, it’s easy enough to shut him out. But I also know what he means. CocoRico is home for me too—a safe place, cool and dark and easy on the eyes.

It’s only ten past four. I’ll wait another hour. I’m on my own special diet these days, longer intervals between times. I’ve devised it to stay in control; it’s become a little game for me, watching the clock, keeping score. I see how well I do, if I can top myself.
I do very well.
It’s all filed away in my head, my scorecard. Day one, two, three…I don’t tell anyone about my new game, except Uncle. Uncle approves of my discipline. I’m careful. If Andres knew, he’d fire me for sure. He’d be sorry to see me go, but he’d fire me anyway. Andres is an old-fashioned man. Junkies make Andres really hysterical.

“PEDRO!” Andres shouts again. “When you’re finished with the toilet, I want you to mop these floors one more time! Do you think I’m blind? I can still see dirt, dirt everywhere!” Andres shouts improvised curses at the janitor:
Pedrong Tamad,
Pedrong Headhunter, Pedro the Pagan Dogeater with the Prick of a Monkey and the Brain of a Flea. Then he throws in the usual
gago
,
tanga
,
walanghiya
,
ulol.
stupid, stupid, shameless, stupid, and variations of stupid like dumbfoolidiot. Andres’s ranting disgusts me, his shrill voice cuts through my James Brown and pisses me off. “Calm down before you have another heart attack,” I growl at Andres, who finally shuts up.

The janitor peers at us from the other side of the dance floor. He wears an old SPORTEX T-shirt I’ve passed on to him, and Andres’s khaki pants several sizes too big for him and torn at the knees. His placid face betrays nothing. “
Señorito
Andres Sir,” he begins in a very polite tone of voice, “what about toilet paper?”

“What about it?”

“Toilet paper,
Señorito
Sir.”

Grumbling, Andres reaches under the counter where he keeps his supplies under lock and key. “Just one,” Andres says, holding out a roll of rough, brand-X toilet paper. “And it better last all night!” I declare, imitating Andres’s indignant tone of voice. He shoots me one of those poisonous looks.

The man from Abra limps across the floor, mop in hand, to take the roll of toilet paper from Andres. “
Señorito
Sir,” Pedro says, staring at both of us.

“What now?” Andres responds with his customary impatience.

“
Señorito
,
yun kwan
,
ho
.” Pedro needs something else from his boss, he refers to it without naming it, which infuriates Andres even more.

“
KWAN?
What
kwan
are you talking about?”

Pedro points in the direction of the men’s room with his chin. “
Ano ba
, Pedro—am I supposed to read your goddam mind?” Andres shouts. I can’t stop laughing. If Andres had his way, toilet paper would be rationed out piece by piece, or better yet, he’d charge his customers for every sheet. Andres believes Filipinos enjoy stealing toilet paper from public bathrooms, that’s why there’s never any left. “No one shits at my disco,” I actually heard him once say to Chiquiting Moreno, trying to justify his miserly ways.

“Paper towels,” I say to Andres. “Pedro wants paper towels for CocoRico’s toilet, so your customers can wash up…Don’t you, Pedro?” Pedro nods. Andres has had enough. He pulls out another packet of stiff brown paper and throws it on the floor. “There. Is everybody happy?” Andres glares at us, his hands resting imperiously on his hips. Pedro bends over and picks up the packet without saying a word. When he has disappeared back into the men’s room to finish cleaning up, I turn to Andres. “You’re really an asshole, boss.” It’s Andres’s turn to blow me a kiss. “Takes one to know one,” he answers smugly.

“Mister Heartbreak”—Andres nicknamed me, the first and only time he ever propositioned me. He didn’t seem to mind when I turned him down. Sometimes I don’t understand him. When I told him about my father, he shook his head in admiration. “You’re lucky you have Negro blood,” he said, “a little black is good for the soul.” This is the miser who treats Pedro like a slave. What a weirdo—a man of contradictions! He makes novenas to Tina Turner and Donna Summer: “Divine
putas
with juicy lips,” he calls them. “Immortal women, the way I like them.”

“Just like your mother,” I tease. Andres, who is notoriously thin-skinned, calls me a black bastard. But I like him just the same.