Ilustrado Part 9

I told her: "It wasn't the toothpaste."

"If not, why throw a hissy fit when I didn't change the channel?"

"Liebling, please don't raise your voice here."

"Was it because of that show on princes William and Harry?"

"Why would it be?"

"I shouldn't have told you."

"Told me what?"

"That I used to have a crush on them."

"Please. What do I care? I used to have a crush on Phoebe Cates. I don't know what you see in them anyway. They're just princes."

"Who lost their mother tragically."

"So did I."

"You only talk about your parents when you need the advantage. I knew knew that this was about William and Harry. Or is it that this was about William and Harry. Or is it also also the toothpaste? What's with your hate for organic? I thought you cared about Mother Earth." the toothpaste? What's with your hate for organic? I thought you cared about Mother Earth."

"I do. I just don't know why she's so self-important. Come on, give me a smile. That argument was so this morning. I asked why you bought that toothpaste. And you said-"

"No. First, I was like, Surprise! Look at this. And then, you said ... What did you say?"

"No. That's not true. I said, Sugarbabe, if you're making tea, could you make me a cup of rooibos. And you said-"

"No, you've got it all wrong. First you were like-"

"Madison. I know what I said."

"So what's wrong with the toothpaste?"

"You know we have huge credit card debt."

"And you blame me? If you had quit scoring to party every weekend, we'd have savings for our future."

"I thought you supported my writing."

"I do."

"I've got to make this dream work. You keep talking about feeding kids in Tasmania."

"That's Tanzania. See? You're in your own little world. I just want us to do something good. Besides, I don't get your Crispin obsession."

"Look, this fight's about the toothpaste. This morning, I was just saying ... Aw, forget it."

"Fine. It's easy to forget. A joy, even, to forget you. All that time you spend in the library. With the memory of your dead friend."

"It's work. Finding TBA TBA will jump-start my career. Don't you get it? It's art. Art is important." will jump-start my career. Don't you get it? It's art. Art is important."

"Art with a capital F F."

"Dead Crispin's better than a living you."

"Quit with the drama," Madison said. She inhaled slowly, digging deep for patience. "Miguel, I love you. Why do you always seem to feel so incomplete? I'm trying my best to be ..." Her voice cracked and she shook her head in disgust. "You're not even listening. Screw this sucky s.h.i.t." She left me and went to look at the huge Pollock. She always hated Pollock. I loved him, particularly this one. It was like someone had set off all the fireworks at the same time. Madison looked like a little girl gazing at the sky on the Fourth of July. I considered going to her and taking her hand. Maybe I should have. But I didn't know what to believe. You can't trust a whiner. You can hear in their voices their hidden motives.

Everyone else in the room was walking the way people do in the presence of inexorable art. Like zombies. I should have gone to Madison. Instead, I stood before Yves Klein's blue painting, hoping its oceanic electricity would embalm what was expanding in me.

Nearby, a tourist, her thickened ankles almost trembling with the load of years and bags of I[image] NY souvenirs, spoke Russian to her younger companion. They zombied closer, to stand beside me. The old lady studied the painting, seemingly entranced by its intense beauty. Turning to her companion, she pointed at the canvas and declared in her thick accent: "Blue Man Group." NY souvenirs, spoke Russian to her younger companion. They zombied closer, to stand beside me. The old lady studied the painting, seemingly entranced by its intense beauty. Turning to her companion, she pointed at the canvas and declared in her thick accent: "Blue Man Group."

They went and joined Madison in front of the Pollock.

From Marcel Avellaneda's blog, "The Burley Raconteur," December 4, 2002: Today's bruit around watercoolers: the Administration reports that Israeli, American, and Australian explosives and ballistics experts agree that the November 19 bombings at the McKinley Plaza Mall were not not accidents. This is the latest in the battle between the Administration, which wants to retain the status quo ("The economy is falling! Bombs are exploding!" they shout. "Don't change horses in midstream!"), and the Lupas Landcorp ("Faulty LPG canisters from PhilFirst Gas Corp were the culprits," Arturo Lupas said in a statement. "Our security is fine, and we're not bombing ourselves. We don't need to claim insurance-we're Lupases, not Changcos. We won't be part of Estregan's smoke screen"). accidents. This is the latest in the battle between the Administration, which wants to retain the status quo ("The economy is falling! Bombs are exploding!" they shout. "Don't change horses in midstream!"), and the Lupas Landcorp ("Faulty LPG canisters from PhilFirst Gas Corp were the culprits," Arturo Lupas said in a statement. "Our security is fine, and we're not bombing ourselves. We don't need to claim insurance-we're Lupases, not Changcos. We won't be part of Estregan's smoke screen").

True Believers, what could it all really really be about? Is the Estregan Administration covering up real problems, to maintain its hold on power? Or is the Administration merely be about? Is the Estregan Administration covering up real problems, to maintain its hold on power? Or is the Administration merely pretending pretending to cover up real problems, to seem in control and justify ramping up its hold on power? Or is the Honorable Fat Cat himself to cover up real problems, to seem in control and justify ramping up its hold on power? Or is the Honorable Fat Cat himself pretending pretending to cover up problems that to cover up problems that ARE NOT ARE NOT there? Or, perhaps most sinisterly, are Estregan and his litter of Chubby Kitties there? Or, perhaps most sinisterly, are Estregan and his litter of Chubby Kitties actively actively manufacturing problems, to allow them to justify an increase in their power? Hors d'oeuvres before martial law, anyone? Hmm. Isn't that too much a trick out of Marcos's playbook? Or is its obviousness its very smoke screen? My friends, with the election less than two years away, of all the lies, half lies, half truths, and hidden truths, perhaps what is real is merely all of the above. manufacturing problems, to allow them to justify an increase in their power? Hors d'oeuvres before martial law, anyone? Hmm. Isn't that too much a trick out of Marcos's playbook? Or is its obviousness its very smoke screen? My friends, with the election less than two years away, of all the lies, half lies, half truths, and hidden truths, perhaps what is real is merely all of the above.

Nevertheless, hot on the case is our network of tireless bloggers, working to wrest reality from the jaws of misinformation. Monkey See Monkey See pokes holes in the Theory of the Faulty Propane Gas Canister, which the government denies is the cause of the Lupas McKinley Plaza Mall blasts. The inimitable Ricardo Roxas IV's pokes holes in the Theory of the Faulty Propane Gas Canister, which the government denies is the cause of the Lupas McKinley Plaza Mall blasts. The inimitable Ricardo Roxas IV's My Daily Vitamins My Daily Vitamins questions why the aforementioned Western experts weren't allowed to be interviewed by local media. And questions why the aforementioned Western experts weren't allowed to be interviewed by local media. And Wasak Wasak asks the impertinent but very pertinent question of whether any of this is relevant to anyone: "No matter who is in power," he writes, "our lives go on with their usual troubles." asks the impertinent but very pertinent question of whether any of this is relevant to anyone: "No matter who is in power," he writes, "our lives go on with their usual troubles."

In this kaleidoscope of shifting vested interests-and a.s.suming the blasts in the south were were put together by Islamist militants-one incident remains unaddressed: What about the one at the Sh.e.l.l station near Forbes Park? Hmmm. No s.h.i.t, Sherlock. Dig deeper, Watson. put together by Islamist militants-one incident remains unaddressed: What about the one at the Sh.e.l.l station near Forbes Park? Hmmm. No s.h.i.t, Sherlock. Dig deeper, Watson.

Last but not least in today's edition, we look at the transcripts of speeches for and against former security guard Wigberto Lakandula's defiant stand: against, by Senator Nuredin Bansamoro, can be found here here; and for, by the elder but still eloquent solon Congressman Respeto Reyes, is available here here.

Nuff said! Until next time, True Believers.

Some posts from the message boards below: -This rivalry between the Lupases and Changcos is going overboard and we're all getting stuck in between. ([email protected]) -No honour amongst thieves! ([email protected]) -Wow, u rly br0ke it down 4 us, Marcel. All-Of-The-Above is my gess. BTW, Estregan dsnt kno wat he s doing, bt he s certnly doing sumthn. IMHO, he s tryng 2 cnvince us he s in control. Der4, dat shows he isnt. ([email protected]) -Why do they have to import experts from abroad, when our experts here are as good, if not better? ([email protected]) -Could it be that Bansamoro is trying to get power by playing both sides? I'm just saying! ([email protected]) -Bayani, I think the foreign experts were brought in to lend the report objectivity and credibility. ([email protected]) -Doesnt it make sense that if Estregans gone, all his programs that are working will stop? Hes just as bad as the rest, so why not just stick with him? We need a benevolent dictator if this country is to succeed. Look at Singapore! ([email protected]) -I know the bomb at the Sh.e.l.l station was done by the Islamists. Who can be sure if the Muslim senator didn't have a hand in it? Innocent until proven guilty, but isn't it better to be safe than sorry? May the Holy Spirit protect us! () *

During the j.a.panese-sponsored Second Philippine Republic, Junior's career thrived, though the ubiquity of random acts of violence made him nervous. He insisted that Leonora and the children travel with him whenever he went from Bacolod to the capital. "He felt we were safer with him," Salvador wrote in his memoir. "Perhaps he was wrong and put us at risk, but he preferred to err with us in his presence than have something transpire in his absence. This is the perfect flaw of all fathers."

As the occupation set like cement drying, a new social order fell into place, though in many ways it looked very much like the old one. In those years, young Salvador witnessed the benefits that his father's position in the collaborationist government provided their family, and he experienced and swallowed, for the first time in his life, the alluring palatability of necessary hypocrisies.

The Salvador residence near Malate Church seemed to the three children to be a safe haven from what was happening just outside their gate. It was in that home, sometime in 1943, where the young Salvador met a man whose life would confuse his conception of patriotism. The aged Artemio Ricarte visited Junior on several occasions. On the third of these, when the two men withdrew to speak in the study, Narcisito ran upstairs to whisper in his little brother's ear: "He's here again, the serpent is here!" The pair tiptoed downstairs to wait outside the study door to catch a glimpse of the old warrior.

Ricarte, whose revolutionary name was "El Vibora," Spanish for "The Viper," was famous for being the general who fought against the Spanish, against the Americans, and was the only one among the defeated revolucionarios to refuse to swear an oath of fidelity to the United States. His dissent had him banned from his country forever, and he was forced to smuggle himself home from Hong Kong in 1903, intent on continuing the war. Ricarte was later betrayed by his comrade General Pio del Pilar-known as "The Boy General"-and imprisoned, though his legendary stature earned him visits from high-ranking U.S. officials, including President Theodore Roosevelt's vice president, Charles Fairbanks. In 1910, Ricarte was released. Refusing a second time to pledge himself to the United States, he was again deported to Hong Kong. He ended up in Yokohama, j.a.pan, with his wife. There he lived in exile until the Second World War, when the j.a.panese government brought him back to the Philippines. The old general returned in triumph, though he was surprised to discover the extent to which his countrymen had become allied with the Americans. Ricarte's task was to convince the Filipinos that their fellow-Asian occupiers were preferable to Western imperialists. After the president of the occupied Philippines, Jose P. Laurel, refused to allow the j.a.panese to conscript Filipinos into the army, Ricarte colluded with Junior Salvador to create a pro-j.a.pan, antiguerrilla movement called the Makapili.

Junior and Ricarte's conferences would last long into the night. Narcisito and Crispin sat outside the study door until they fell asleep. In Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist, Salvador remembers: "I was startled awake by The Viper himself! The kindly man of seventy-seven years was bent stiffly toward me and my brother, a hand on each of our heads, tousling our hair. 'As lookouts, you two would be court-martialed,' he said. With a sigh, he nodded and shuffled to the sofa in the sala, where we clambered up beside him to listen to stories of the wars he had fought alongside heroes we had grown up idolizing. What I remember most vividly, however, was my father seated in his armchair facing the sofa, looking at us, his two sons, with naked pride."

-from the biography in progress, Crispin Salvador: Crispin Salvador: Eight Lives Lived, by Miguel Syjuco *

"Dude, you should have seen it," Mitch says. He's tweaked, pacing back and forth in front of a group of us guys outside the club's bathroom. It's Markus, E.V., Edward, Mitch, and me. Bubbles of saliva froth at the edges of Mitch's mouth. "Like my house, right, it's like at the end of Forbes, as in, right over the wall of our backyard is the Sh.e.l.l station. Yes, yes yes, exactly! I know! That That Sh.e.l.l station. I wasn't home, but the maids said it made my mom and dad's f.u.c.king antique celadons slide off their stands in the cabinets. But dude, Sh.e.l.l station. I wasn't home, but the maids said it made my mom and dad's f.u.c.king antique celadons slide off their stands in the cabinets. But dude, dude dude, get this. Dude, me and my bro, we get home early the next morning, after partying. We could still feel the flavors of the E and K and s.h.i.t in us. We're smoking one of Melvin's joints in the yard. So we can sleep, right? 'Cause like our mom can always smell it when we smoke in the house. Yeah, right? Proof she's partaken in her youth. So So, Melvin and I are like sitting on the bench near my mom's fountain-that's right, that plaster boy p.i.s.sing. We're looking up, enjoying, you know, those last f.u.c.king fingers of darkness finally disappearing in the sky ..."

"You're a fricking poet," E.V. says.

"Yeah, f.u.c.k you very much," Mitch says. "So, Mel, he gets it in his head that he wants to swim. But our houseboy told us when he opened the gate that they'd put in chemicals and the pool was off-limits for the day. And I'm like, Mel, you think he's lying to us? And Mel looks at me and is like, You think? And I'm like, Why would he be lying to us? Mel's like, I don't know, but maybe he might be. So we look at the houseboy, off at the far corner of the yard, pruning the hedges with his big-a.s.s shears. And he does does look like he's lying to us. Like he's pretending he doesn't see us suspecting him of lying. And I'm like, Yeah, I look like he's lying to us. Like he's pretending he doesn't see us suspecting him of lying. And I'm like, Yeah, I def definitely think he's lying. And Mel's like, But why would he do that? And I'm like, Dude, just look at him. And Mel looks at him, then is like, So you think we should just say f.u.c.k it and swim? And I'm like, Yeah. And Mel's already taking his shirt off and is down to his boxers. Then he goes to me, What about you? And I'm like: Nah, I don't feel like swimming just yet. And Mel's halfway from the fountain to the pool, which probably had all these nasty f.u.c.king chemicals, running in his boxers with pictures of condoms on them, when he trips on something on the lawn. He tumbles and rolls like Flash f.u.c.king Gordon. And we're both like s.h.i.tting ourselves laughing. But when I go to help him up, I see see what he slipped on. Dude, it's a f.u.c.k what he slipped on. Dude, it's a f.u.c.king head. It's an actual head. It's an actual head. head. Yeah, of one of the cops. A cop's f.u.c.king head. Get this, the strange thing is, because we're all f.u.c.ked on E and acid and s.h.i.t, we're of course h.e.l.la surprised, but Yeah, of one of the cops. A cop's f.u.c.king head. Get this, the strange thing is, because we're all f.u.c.ked on E and acid and s.h.i.t, we're of course h.e.l.la surprised, but not not grossed out. Mel and I just look at it. It's like sort of beautiful. The b.l.o.o.d.y neck part's covered by the gra.s.s, so it looked like that's what our lawn would've looked like if our lawn had a face and was sleeping. We knew it was weird. But it wasn't gross. It was just, you know, the circle of life." grossed out. Mel and I just look at it. It's like sort of beautiful. The b.l.o.o.d.y neck part's covered by the gra.s.s, so it looked like that's what our lawn would've looked like if our lawn had a face and was sleeping. We knew it was weird. But it wasn't gross. It was just, you know, the circle of life."

We're all listening so intently we don't notice that the bathroom is free. Some guy behind us says something. The group of us go in, like teenage boys slipping into the adult section of a video rental shop. As I close the door, the guy behind us looks at us funny. For a second, I'm a bit uncomfortable. For a second. Then I remember. This is Manila. It's nice being home.

In the bathroom, a couple of baggies are pa.s.sed around, and we do b.u.mps off the ends of our keys. I hide my own baggie in my pocket. A bag reaches me, I b.u.mp, then pa.s.s it to Mitch. He uses the nail of his pinky finger, which he's grown for this purpose.

"It's that f.u.c.king Nuredin Bansamoro," E.V. says, tapping his baggie to gauge how much he's got left. "I'm telling you. He's messing with the government. It's all smoke and mirrors with him. It's like we learned in lit cla.s.s: 'The prince of darkness is a gentleman.'"

"Fligga, no f.u.c.king way," Markus says. "It's the Muslims. The Abu Sayyaf."

"Bansamoro and the Abu Sayyaf," E.V. says, "aren't they like f.u.c.k-buddies?"

"Dude, that's knee-jerk bigotry," Markus says. "Just 'cause they worship Allah doesn't mean they're in cahoots."

"They say," Edward offers, "it's got something to do with a love triangle with fricking President Estrogen and that Vita Nova chick."

"f.u.c.king funny, dude. President Estrogen Estrogen!" says Mitch, cracking up.

"At the heart of every story," I say, "is a love triangle."

"It's Estrogen's man-b.o.o.bs, pare." Edward says. "A fear of manb.o.o.bs is at the heart of what drives every man."

"Vita Nova," Mitch says, gyrating his hips. "Aw yeah! I hope that s.e.x tape gets released. This soldier dude I play B-ball with, Marine Sergeant Joey Smith, he likes to say: Well corn my p.o.r.n, that's one mighty fine LBFM. Dude, Vita's gots the launch codes for my my intercontinental ballistic missile." intercontinental ballistic missile."

"What's an LBFM?" I say.

"Little brown f.u.c.k machine," E.V. explains.

"Fligga, please," Markus insists. "It's totally the Abu Sayyaf. Can I get another b.u.mp?"

"What's a fligga anyway?" I say.

"Filipino n.i.g.g.a," E.V. says.

"So what happened?" Markus says.

"To what?" says E.V.

"To the guy's head," I say.

"So, what happened is," Mitch continues, "we call the houseboy over. Now that that dude's surprised. The f.u.c.king guy steps back, turns around, and hurls his breakfast. Like f.u.c.king five yards away. An dude's surprised. The f.u.c.king guy steps back, turns around, and hurls his breakfast. Like f.u.c.king five yards away. An Exorcist Exorcist-worthy blow-by. But Mel and I are weirded out by him, right? 'cause we thought he was f.u.c.king with our heads about the pool. We're convinced he left the head there for us to find. So we tell him to clean it up. He just looks looks at us. Then he goes away and comes back with our driver. The houseboy's carrying a pool net, the driver has a s...o...b..x. They try to get the head into the s...o...b..x, but the f.u.c.king thing won't fit. They're just like rolling it around, and it's like staring up at them like what the f.u.c.k? So they go back into the house. When they come back, a group of maids follows, but they like wait on the steps, not wanting to get closer. The houseboy's carrying one of my mom's hatboxes. They use the pool net to push the head into it. And f.u.c.king-A, it's a perfect fit. Then Mel and I go to our room and crash. Dude, the funniest thing ... later that afternoon, my ma comes into our room to wake us up for church. Mel told me later he was like totally giving it to Palmela Handerson and was about nut when our mom walked in. Anyway, Ma's all p.i.s.sed and s.h.i.t, going off on us in the dark. She's like: Why didn't you use a plastic bag or something? That hatbox was from Bergdorf's! Me and Mel just like hid under our blankets, giggling. My mom switches on the lights and just splits, leaving the door wide open so that the air-con could escape. f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h." at us. Then he goes away and comes back with our driver. The houseboy's carrying a pool net, the driver has a s...o...b..x. They try to get the head into the s...o...b..x, but the f.u.c.king thing won't fit. They're just like rolling it around, and it's like staring up at them like what the f.u.c.k? So they go back into the house. When they come back, a group of maids follows, but they like wait on the steps, not wanting to get closer. The houseboy's carrying one of my mom's hatboxes. They use the pool net to push the head into it. And f.u.c.king-A, it's a perfect fit. Then Mel and I go to our room and crash. Dude, the funniest thing ... later that afternoon, my ma comes into our room to wake us up for church. Mel told me later he was like totally giving it to Palmela Handerson and was about nut when our mom walked in. Anyway, Ma's all p.i.s.sed and s.h.i.t, going off on us in the dark. She's like: Why didn't you use a plastic bag or something? That hatbox was from Bergdorf's! Me and Mel just like hid under our blankets, giggling. My mom switches on the lights and just splits, leaving the door wide open so that the air-con could escape. f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h."

In the music and darkness and lights, our long-faced protagonist stands flanked by familiar voices. When his friends smile or laugh, he does the same, even if he didn't hear the joke. He raises his gla.s.s at their every exhortation. He finishes his drink quickly, to create an excuse to leave the group. That habitual tactic always makes him the first to get drunk. Tonight, it works even faster. He goes again to the bar.

The bartender brings our tipsy protagonist a gla.s.s of Lagavulin single malt. A woman with a butch cut, an old friend from his college days, approaches him warmly. "h.e.l.lo, Sara," he says, his voice welcoming like a hand held out. They speak quietly for a while. When she leaves, he abandons his Lagavulin, untouched on the bar, and slips away unnoticed. He barges through the crowd by the door, pushing them aside like curtains. They look back in puzzlement.

He takes a cab to his hotel and lies down on his bed, deep in thought. The baggie of cocaine sits on the table. He'd once told his therapist that the reason he wanted to clean up was for Madison. But that wasn't exactly true. He never told Dr. Goldman about his being a father. He thinks of what Sara told him. And of all the things he should have said in return. He remembers one time watching Crispin at his typewriter, the letters collecting into words- l'esprit de l'escalier l'esprit de l'escalier . A phrase he often thinks about. The spirit, summoned by the texture of the k.n.o.b, the tinkle of keys, the shock of a dead bolt, the snap of his heel echoing down the stairwell, like laughter, ha, ha, ha, ha. All the unsaid answers, rea.s.surances, apologies, retorts. He's afraid that when the time comes to make amends, he won't know what to say. . A phrase he often thinks about. The spirit, summoned by the texture of the k.n.o.b, the tinkle of keys, the shock of a dead bolt, the snap of his heel echoing down the stairwell, like laughter, ha, ha, ha, ha. All the unsaid answers, rea.s.surances, apologies, retorts. He's afraid that when the time comes to make amends, he won't know what to say.

He goes to the baggie, holds it over the toilet, but says aloud, "What's the point?" He cuts himself a few rough lines on the tabletop. They sit there like arrows pointing in different directions.

Later, he has a feeling that he is being watched. Talked about. Judged. A distant c.o.c.k crows and the sky begins to lighten. His heart keeps time with the cheap clock on the bedside table. It slows until it's normal. Time, too, seems to lessen its pace. The light in the world diminishes.

He is sitting at an Underwood, typing away. Then it becomes a laptop, and he is researching crucifixions for a short story when he comes across a strange name. Archbishop Joachim of Nizhny-Novgorod, found crucified upside down on the Royal Doors of the Sebastopol Cathedral in 1920. Intrigued by its recentness, he checks Wikipedia, only to find the entry reads, "He was a big fat guy who was the best friwnd of Satanand he easts babys, so he was crucified by monkeys." Further research proves this inaccurate. It was Bolsheviks who did him in. Leaving the study, he walks down the hall to discover the blue door wide open. Outside, Jane Street is sandy and blindingly bright. A man is dragging a body across the floor as if it were trash for Monday morning pickup. "You're late," the man says, dropping the wrist of Crispin's corpse. The man pushes him into the crowd. They tear off his clothes. He sees that he has an erection and is filled with deep shame. A security guard in a blue uniform thrusts a heavy beam upon his shoulders. "This is called a patibulum," a woman whispers in his ear. "If you can get free of it, you'll find your child." He is pushed to join the procession. He reaches the top of the hill. Somebody in the crowd is playing Air Supply on a tinny transistor radio. This is a dream. I can control it if I try. He is pushed onto his back and seven-inch spikes are driven between his radii and carpals. His patibulum is lifted onto an upright stipe. Another spike is banged through the intermetatarsal s.p.a.ces of his feet. Only when he sees the disgust and pity on the faces in the crowd does he feel any pain. It is nearly impossible to breathe. He pulls himself up by his impaled wrists to draw air. I can escape. Fire flashes down his arms, up his legs. He wilts. He pulls himself up to breathe out. I can step down from this thing. The pain is even more horrendous for its new familiarity. The sun grows hotter. Women pa.s.s by. They flutter plastic fans with his grandfather's face on them. "Look at his wrinkled peepee," says Anais. "Check out his chicken legs," says Madison. Dr. Goldman, checking her watch, reminds, "Stay away from situations that will lead you to fail." Robert De Niro playing Al Capone comes to stand before him, wearing a tuxedo and brandishing a Louisville Slugger. Capone is suddenly President Estregan, wearing a green satin boxing robe. The bat is swung twice, elegantly. His legs are broken. Unable to hold himself up, he cannot breathe. There's still so much I need to do. The crowd sounds like the recursive sea. To either side, two thieves are nailed to their patibula. He hears the bang, bang, bang, like keystrokes of a typewriter in the next room. recursive sea. To either side, two thieves are nailed to their patibula. He hears the bang, bang, bang, like keystrokes of a typewriter in the next room.

Sitting up suddenly in bed, he looks at the TV, the window looking onto windows, and the teas beside the electric kettle on the counter. For a few seconds, he has no idea where he is. The fall of rain outside reminds him.

It's afternoon and my taxi travels north, through the rain. I'm going to a poetry reading and book launch, where I hope some of the literati will tell me more about Crispin. In the deluge, men in yellow plastic cloaks stand on ladders, stringing Christmas lights and wreaths to streetlamps on the road. The torrent is like gravel on the taxi's roof, and I wonder how the men don't fall. The taxi driver curses, opens his door to spit heftily.

From the radio sputters the distorted jingle of the Bombo news report. A voice crackles in Tagalog: "My compatriots, stay tuned for these top stories at the hour: more flooding as rains continue; Reverend Martin, detained at Camp Crame, has his request for bail denied; international environmental activists protest outside the San Mateo munitions and fireworks factory of the Philippines First Corporation; SWAT teams have prepared a battering ram in hope of ending the Lakandula hostage siege; and our own pride and joy, Efren 'Bata' Reyes, wins the World 8 Ball Championship again. Full stories at three on the clock." Then the sanctifying guitar chords of Poison's "Every Rose Has Its Thorn."

I spent yesterday evening and all of this morning recuperating from the other night's c.o.ke binge. I didn't want to see anyone. I just couldn't. My link to the outside world was the dozens of text messages I kept getting from people urging me to bring food and water to the protesters outside the Changco home. I sat in bed with my books, searching Crispin's memoir, notebooks, a.s.sorted writings, for evidence of his daughter. Nothing specific turned up, though suddenly each of his works has become freighted with meaning-every heroic protagonist is a compensation, every loss now a metaphor, every mention of a father or a child suddenly more than was ever on the page. I fanned his work out on my bed, and looked at it like pieces of a puzzle in which the picture will only be recognized once it is solved. Miss Florentina will be my only chance to learn more. Unless any of the writers at the book launch know something.

The taxi driver turns right onto Edsa. Traffic slows. Stops. Flooding perhaps? The rains cease in an instant. The driver switches off his wipers. Wind rakes the remaining droplets, gathered beyond the wipers' reach, horizontally across the windshield. He keeps looking at me in his rearview. He's young, hair spiked like a sea urchin. He nods his head with feeling to the rock ballad, lips subtly mouth the words. He finally says, "No more rain," grinning as if it were his doing. "My name is Joe," he says, apropos of nothing.

Traffic moves through a corridor of hand-painted movie signs, which rise three stories high and block out the squatter areas like some Potemkin village of celluloid fantasies. It's not too strained a metaphor. Someone in the industry once told me the Philippines has the world's fourth largest film industry, next to Bollywood, Hollywood, and Nigeria's Nollywood. Phollywood, he'd called it, laughing unkindly. These billboards are the iceberg's tip of the melodramatic tradition that links every genre: Rumble in Manila 4 Rumble in Manila 4;Shake Rattle and Roll Part 9-Christ Have Mercy ; ;I Will Wait for You in Heaven ; ;Please Teacher Don't Touch Me There ; and ; and High Skool Hijinks High Skool Hijinks. In garish, sun-kissed ochre acrylic, the faces of the artistas tower like egos. Gone are the clean-scrubbed teen princesas and gritty heroes of the eighties, icons of my youth-some already pa.s.sed away, most simply pa.s.sed on to heavenly political careers or h.e.l.lish marriages with sons of tyc.o.o.ns.

Keeping to long-standing tradition, this new breed has taken the surnames of the country's elite: Lisa Lupas, Ret-Ret Romualdez, Cherry-pie Changco, Pogi-boy Prieto, Heart Aquino. Others appropriate American culture: Pepsi Paloma IV, Keana Reeves, Mike Adidas. But the one who stands out, again, is the heaving-breasted Vita Nova, whose lithe looks took her from humble Pampanga roots to center stage of Cla.s.smate, the new strip club where dancers don (then remove) the uniforms of Catholic girls' colleges. Her big break, the papers like to highlight, was as an actress in karaoke videos, the first being "Unchained Melody," where she walked by a pond and looked rapt with hungering for her beloved's touch. Now-on the heels of her success with the Mr. s.e.xy s.e.xy Dance, having parlayed her s.e.xual wares wisely-Vita's now a megastar. According to the poster, she's in "her most important role and big-screen breakout ever in the world." That may not be entirely true. If the rumors are to be believed, the tape from the videocam that Nova discovered hidden in her bedroom may take that honor. That is, if it really does contain the postcoital cell-phone conversations that will lead to Estregan's impeachment. Already people are calling it s.e.xys.e.xygate.

Joe the taxi driver jerks the wheel, barely avoiding a convoy of cars. He makes the sign of the cross. Shouts: "Your mother is a wh.o.r.e!" The convoy (Ford Explorer, stretch BMW, open-backed Toyota Tamaraw filled with scowling goons) parts traffic with the bleeps and squeals of its siren. Cars grudgingly give way. "He thinks he's somebody," Joe explains, his eyes in the rearview mirror forcing me to engage with him. I smile, wrinkling my forehead in complicit exasperation. Convoys like this are a peso a dozen.

But I think I know that BMW. Or maybe it's familiar in that arrogant way of all luxury vehicles. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid again. The beemer bolts ahead. It has a b.u.mper sticker. "PRO-Gun: Peaceful, Responsible, Owners of Guns." Beside it, another. "PROG.o.d: Praise, Respect, Obey G.o.d." I slide down in my seat, quick as an eel. I hide my face with my hands and peek out. The right rear fender is dented. Years ago, learning to park my Corolla in our tight garage, I made a dent just like that. There's a bobble-headed figurine of President Estregan, nodding from the board behind the backseat. A gift I'd given to my grandfather years ago, for his seventieth birthday.

Joe looks at me sympathetically. "Don't be afraid, pare," he says. "BMW. Big Mama Whale. People like that, they're more afraid of us. They're just swimming in the river. You know, de-Nile." He starts cracking himself up and shoves the gear into place. With a proud roar, the car leaps forward into the lane left in the convoy's wake.

"No!" I shout, surprising myself. Joe ignores me, pleased to exhibit his taxi driver guile. We fly along, following the convoy as it wedges its way through traffic. It pa.s.ses unhindered through a roadblock of soldiers and disappears in the distance, like an apparition from my past.

The other night, in the club, when I went to get a couple of fingers of Lagavulin, I saw Sara, an old college friend. I don't know why I'm admitting this. We'd stopped talking years ago, when I'd reinvented myself after my breakup with Anais. Sara had a new buzz cut and I wasn't even sure it was her. She'd been part of Anais's group. I guess I'm ashamed that I rarely admit to myself how often I think of my daughter. Sara approached me warmly. We reminisced quietly. "Hey, did you hear," she said casually, and proceeded to tell me that Anais had gotten married and that their new little family was moving to another city. My child wanted to see me beforehand. A new school, a fresh start, a chance to fill my absence and leave it buried in her past. It was my little girl's idea. I've always been pretty sure that it was never a matter of if if we would meet, but we would meet, but when when. But Anais said it was better that we didn't.

Sara asked me: "If your daughter wants to get in touch, what's the best way?" I didn't know what to say. I said: "E-mail's good." It sounded odd, wrong. E-mail? When Sara left, I thought of hundreds of better replies. I left my scotch and went back to the hotel and just lay there. I couldn't sleep for some reason. A c.o.c.k crowed and the sky lightened. My heart kept time with the cheap alarm clock by the bed.

I'm paralyzed, I know, by the multiplicity of new beginnings with my daughter. I've thought each through, exploring them in my mind like fingers rubbing their way along old rosary beads. She and I will be in a cafe, standing in her living room, in the parking lot outside her school, by chance on an opposite escalator in the mall, across a table at a book signing, in an ostentatious restaurant of my choosing, on the musty bed on which I am dying. She will hug me, or she will hit me, or she will cry tears that mean the death of my hope, or she will sob a breath that signifies the birth of my fresh chance. I'll be called, coldly, father, or Miguel, or, precisely, a.s.shole. My child will stare at the gift I brought her and speak of the hate she has for me. My daughter will look away and say she wants to try to forgive me. My girl will play with her coffee spoon and express nothing. My little one will look me in the eye and ask: Why? How could you? Didn't you love me? And despite all my rehearsals, I won't know what to say. If she flees, do I chase her through the crowd, or let her be free? If she says f.u.c.k off, shall I bow my head and slink away to weep in the men's room, or should I plant myself before her, arms akimbo, to show that, this time, I mean to stay? Can I tell her that I love her, even if my past actions will always shade future promises with doubt?

I'm petrified, I admit, by the multiplicity of endings for my absence. Should I call her now? Next month? Or when I'm finally a person she can be proud of? Should I post a letter? Compose an e-mail to her mother? I don't know how such simple actions can be part of a choice so complicated. Should I send a present on her sixteenth birthday? Should I write a book, with a hidden message, telling her that I was wrong, that I'm sorry, telling her I'm here for her, whenever she is ready?

Yataro came to our rescue a second time, in the final month, albeit indirectly. As the j.a.ps retreated, dishonored, leaving behind a scorched country, our family had chosen the relative safety of Swanee. One night, three j.a.panese infantrymen, amputated from the withdrawing main force, found their way to our house, attracted by the light and the sound of silverware on plates, which must have beckoned amid the sizzle of insects and ponderous twilight. The orchestra of crickets at dusk always reminds me of this scene. It was my mother who faced the soldiers as they walked up the driveway. She had heard of the atrocities in other towns, of babies thrown upon bayonets, of women shot where they'd just been raped. The intruders' timing could not have been worse: my father was in the fields with the men, digging up the guns he'd had buried before the occupation.

The soldiers stopped in their tracks when they saw my mother step outside with the best weapon she could find, my grandfather's ancient Holland & Holland double-barrel .450-caliber elephant gun. She raised it and took aim. It jammed and the soldiers laughed. They approached her, one lowering his bayonet, another drawing his sword, the other unbuckling his belt. As Lena and Narcisito watched from the front door, I leaped forward to thrust myself, my nine-year-old body, between the j.a.ps and my mother. I cried out, in Nippongo, words I didn't know I knew: "Yagate shini / keshiki ha miezu / semi no koe!" Two of the men laughed. They moved closer. But the one with the sword, suddenly pensive, barked something to the others. They all turned and walked away, disappearing into the forest behind the house. Only years later did I remember the words as a haiku by Basho, taught to me in childhood by Yataro. "Nothing in the cry / of cicadas suggests they / are about to die."

-from Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist (page 1063), by Crispin Salvador (page 1063), by Crispin Salvador *