Dogeaters (9 page)

Part of my father’s job includes playing golf from dawn until dusk every Saturday, and Sundays after Mass, gambling for high stakes with his boss Severo Alacran, the nearsighted Judge Peter Ramos, Congressman Diosdado “Cyanide” Abad, Dr. Ernesto Katigbak, and occasionally even General Nicasio Ledesma. Congressman Abad cheats to win, and doesn’t care who knows it. The caddies are in cahoots with the flamboyant politician and Severo Alacran, who is less blatant about his cheating. The Congressman is president of the board at Monte Vista, and Severo Alacran is Severo Alacran; both men are therefore untouchable.

My mother Dolores is indifferent to golf and the women like Dr. Emilia Katigbak who play it on the women’s course, a segregated area back there somewhere behind the club. My mother only comes to the Monte Vista to sit in the clubhouse dining room and watch Jaime Oliveira playing tennis on the courts below her window. She always sits at the same table, with Mrs. Goldenberg the American consul’s wife, Mimi Pelayo, or Cherry Pie Lozano’s mother.

(Nestor finally strolls in with someone else, some skinny mestizo
daw,
some boy in tight pants, according to Max. Doña Booding jumps up from her chair, knocking over the potted palm and spilling cake and
halo-halo
sundae all over the carpet…She starts screaming at the top of her lungs: “I want my money back! I want my Rolex! My car! My apartment!” The orchestra keeps right on playing—
alam mo na,
no one in the Manila Hotel would dare to stop Doña Booding! She screams and claws at Nestor, she rips the Rolex off his wrist, she curses his dead mother…Then she accuses him of being a
bakla
—that’s right, in front of the whole world…)

My father is a privileged member and stockholder in the sprawling country club, where the magnificent greens are rumored to be infested with cobras, and the high-beamed ceilings of the open-air dining pavilions are a nesting-place for bats. Uncle Agustin claims the bats are useful for keeping away mosquitoes, and the snakes are useful for keeping away Japanese tourists. Uncle Agustin hates the Japanese, and is not a member of the Monte Vista. He is a frequent guest of my father’s, who also secured him a job with Intercoco. When Uncle Agustin gambled away his inheritance, my father went to Severo Alacran and begged him to hire his older brother. Fortunately, Severo Alacran repays favors. Though he was well aware of Uncle Agustin’s abrasive personality, a job was especially created for him, and he became Associate Vice President in Charge of Shuffling Papers at the Quezon City branch of Intercoco. It is a bogus position which pays him enough to maintain a modest bungalow and two hardworking servants who shop, cook, clean, launder, garden, chauffeur, and look after his lazy, demanding children. “Nothing to be ashamed of!” Uncle Agustin once declared to my father, “We have everything we need.”

My father knows perfectly well his brother resents him for all he’s done. It doesn’t matter. We spend every Saturday together—Pucha’s family and mine. Pucha and I come home from Jojo’s beauty parlor, our nails filed and painted “Tangerine Tango” or “Jungle Red.” We shut ourselves in my dismal bedroom, surrounded by copies of
Celebrity Pinoy
magazine and trays of food. It’s a dead weekend for the social butterfly Pucha. No parties to attend, no boys panting on the telephone. She’s been punished by her mother for giving Boomboom Alacran her valuable pearl ring, which Boomboom wears dangling from a chain around his fat neck. Pucha got the idea from an Elvis Presley song. While
Tita
Florence is pleased by the attention her daughter is getting from an Alacran, she’s no fool—Pucha looks older than her age, but she’s still quite a few years younger than Boomboom.
Tita
Florence is determined to preserve Pucha’s precious virginity.

My mother and
Tita
Florence are having
merienda
in my mother’s sitting room. When my father and Uncle Agustin finish their golf, they’ll come home and we’ll all sit down to one of my mother’s lavish Saturday night dinners. Pucha’s brother Mikey and my brother Raul will show up just in time to eat—they always do, they’re like animals, they can smell food from miles away.

(How should I know? Nestor was a nobody then, that’s why…Only Max remembers. Nestor stood there, cool as cool
daw
, then unzipped his pants; “I owe you nothing,” he said, taking out his
titing
and waving it at Doña Booding and all the people watching in the lobby. “I paid for everything with
this.
” Then he stuffed it back in his pants and walked away.)

My father orders us to call Severo and Isabel Alacran “
Tito
” and “
Tita
,” as if we’re related by blood. “We’re related by money,” Uncle Agustin snickers, proud of his connection, however marginal, to the king. My cousin Pucha is just like her father; she leaps at every chance to call Severo Alacran “uncle,” says it loud enough for everyone to hear. She flirts with him in her coy, petulant way. I’ve caught the old man looking at her, sizing her up slowly. I can tell he finds my silly cousin desirable; her eagerness amuses him. I’ve told her it’s disgusting, she should lie down on a bed of money and die, the way she acts these days. She pisses me off so much, sometimes I’m embarrassed to be seen with her—wiggling and strutting all over the place. It’s a wonder she’s still a virgin. “
Ay, prima
!” Pucha laughs, feigning shock at my sour observations, “for such a baby, you have a dirty mind.” “Severo Alacran keeps staring at your boobs,” I complain, “and you keep leading him on!” Pucha actually looks pleased. “Rio, take my advice,” she says, in that condescending tone of hers. “Go to confession and stop being so
corny
.”

(Max is Max but I believe him when it comes to Nestor’s
kalokohan.
You know what happened to Doña Booding? How she gave up everything for God and took to calling herself La Sultana and telling fortunes? The boy with Nestor? How should I know?
Dios ko
, you ask too many questions. He’s probably dead, according to Max…And Nestor—
puwede ba
, just look at him!
Wala nang
sex appeal—
kawawa naman,
it’s Nestor’s turn to have to pay for it now.)

Sometimes Pucha and I go swimming at the club. We go Saturdays after lunch, or Sundays we’ll go have
merienda
—eat German hot dogs so long and thick Pucha can’t stop giggling. The waiters stare at her and grin, it’s awful—everything reminds Pucha of sex. We put on our bathing suits and lounge by the pool deck after eating, so Pucha can scan the horizon for the arrival of Boomboom Alacran and his foulmouthed friends. As soon as she spots them, Pucha starts posing. Pucha doesn’t really know how to swim and thinks bathing suits have been created for the sole purpose of showing off her body. I jump in the pool and swim as far from them as I can, relieved that my job of keeping my ambitious cousin company is over.

The sign by the Monte Vista pool reads:

NO YAYAS ALLOWED TO SWIM

Which means that when Congressman Abad’s daughter Peachy was five years old, her
yaya
Ana had no business jumping in the pool to save her from drowning. Ana jumped in anyway, dressed in her spotless white uniform and matching white plastic slippers. She pulled Peachy out of the pool before the stupid lifeguard even noticed anything was wrong. My mother told us all about it—she was sitting right there by the pool and would’ve jumped in herself except that like Pucha, my mother can’t swim.

H
ERE WE ARE AT
dinner, the Gonzaga clan on a Saturday night. My bombastic Uncle Agustin goes on about the General, complaining endlessly about the day’s golf game, the money he lost because Congressman Abad cheated and no one did anything about it. It’s the same old story, every time
Tito
Agustin loses a game. He’d rather blame it on someone else than admit he’s a shitty golfer—the butt of many jokes at the Monte Vista.

Pacita serves us peppery sweet
lechon kawali
, grilled
bangus
, and her specialty, an Ilocano-inspired
pinakbet
with bitter-melon, squash, okra, and stringbeans stewed with cloves of garlic, bits of pork fat, and salty fermented shrimp
bagoong.
Pucha won’t eat
pinakbet
, she says it gives her bad breath. Neither will Uncle Agustin. They ask Pacita to open and heat up a can of Heinz Pork’n’Beans instead. Pucha loves her canned beans because they’re gooey with molasses, but most of all because they’re expensive and imported. We eat in happy silence, our insides swimming in sugar, grease, and vinegar.

The ancient ceiling fan squeaks, twirling at medium speed. Between mouthfuls, Uncle Agustin predicts monsoon rain, a disastrous early typhoon season. “It’s much too hot to go on this way—we need relief.” Aida and Lorenza stand by with homemade contraptions the gardener Godofredo has constructed: long wooden sticks with newspaper streamers attached to the ends, designed to fan away flying insects the way a
carabao
or horse flicks its tail.

“I can’t imagine him doing it,”
Tita
Florence says, about the Congressman. “He’s such a darling man, so kind and charitable, so darling—are you sure, Agustin?” She shakes her head slowly at the awful thought—she shakes her head slowly and eats more than anyone else at the table. A dainty predator, she devours tiny portions bit by bit, chewing methodically with a rapturous look on her face. Uncle Agustin looks at his wife with murder in his eyes. He says nothing, then turns to my father and begins recounting Severo Alacran’s latest escapade with some foreigner’s wife. “He’s fond of her red hair,” Uncle Agustin says, winking obscenely. Mikey and Raul grin; Pucha kicks me under the table.
Tita
Florence is aghast, and puts down her fork and spoon long enough to say: “Agustin,
por dios
—haven’t I warned you? You will learn wisdom on your deathbed and then—it will be much too late.”

After dinner we drag ourselves to the adjoining living room for coffee, cigars, and Spanish brandy. “We’re out of French cognac, I’m afraid,” my mother apologizes. “Excellent, excellent. The French are overrated! Spanish brandy is actually the best in the world,” Uncle Agustin says, anxiously waiting as my father pours him a double. Pucha and I sit next to each other on the rattan couch, drowsy and overfed. “Johnny Walker Black, on the rocks for me,” my cousin Mikey says to Aida. My father gives him a curious glance. “Miguel. I didn’t know you drank—since when?” Mikey shrugs, avoiding his mother’s worried look. Emboldened by Mikey, my brother asks for a beer and is handed a TruCola by my mother instead. “Shit,” he mutters, under his breath. “Excuse me, Raul—what did you say?” My mother asks sweetly.

“Genuine
ba ito
, or
putok
?” Mikey asks Aida when she returns with his drink. It is a reference to the common practice of selling deadly mixtures of rubbing alcohol and brown tea in brand-name bottles as imported liquor. Aida is confused by my insolent cousin’s tone. She answers in a meek voice. “Johnny
Lumalakad, ho
.” “Genuine
ba ito
, or
putok
?” Mikey repeats, growing impatient. He addresses her in a loud voice, as if she were retarded. Aida’s face flushes crimson and I want to leave the room, which suddenly makes me feel stifled. Raul joins in the fun. “That Johnny Walker is
sprikitik
, boss!” Mikey cracks up. My mother rescues Aida from further embarrassment. “Never mind, Aida. The boys are just teasing—you can go now and have your dinner. Just ask Fely or Pacita to make more coffee for us.” Relieved, Aida hurries out of the room. My mother turns to my father. “I don’t get it, Freddie. What’s the difference between
putok
and
sprikitik?
Don’t they both mean fake?”

My father thinks for a moment. “You might say Congressman Abad
sprikitiks
when he plays golf, but General Ledesma rewards his army with cases of
putok
liquor.”

Tita
Florence fans herself with a woven
pye-pye.
“
Dios mio
, Freddie. What are you making
bola-bola
about?”

“It’s a known fact, Florence,”
Tito
Agustin informs her.
Tita
Florence rolls her eyes in disbelief, fanning herself with renewed vigor.

“Papi,” Mikey says to his father, “they say the soldiers don’t know the difference, and they’re grateful! They say that’s why the soldiers are so loyal to the General. He gives them cases and cases of
putok
labeled Dewar’s Scotch, or Johnny Walker. The
putok
is so terrible, their guts rot and burn, and they wake up with killer hangovers. They say that’s why Ledesma’s men stay mean-spirited and ready to kill—” My cousin Mikey says all this with admiration. My brother looks impressed. Pucha leans over to whisper in my ear. “This is boring. I think I’m going to vomit.”

“The General is from a good family,”
Tito
Agustin says to my mother. “Do you remember the Ledesmas from Tarlac?” My mother shakes her head.
Tita
Florence puts down her fan to correct her husband. “Wrong, Agustin, as usual. Nicasio is the outside son of Don Amado Avila and the laundress Catalina. I know because my mother is from the same town as the Avilas—”

My mother’s eyes widen. “You mean he’s actually Senator Avila’s half-brother?”

“And the president’s former chauffeur,”
Tita
Florence nods triumphantly. “That’s why the General hates the Senator so much.”

Uncle Agustin looks irritated. “You’re all wrong! Severo once told me that the Ledesmas and the Avilas are cousins, from feuding families in Tarlac.”

We are-all ears—it’s better than any episode of
Love Letters
, and even Pucha perks up.

“What about those camps?” my brother Raul suddenly asks.

“What camps?” My father is annoyed.
Tita
Florence and my mother seem perplexed, while Pucha looks bored. Uncle Agustin keeps drinking.

“The camps,” Raul repeats. “The General runs the main one,
di ba
?” He turns to my father. “You know—for subversives. Senator Avila’s always denouncing them—he calls them torture camps.”