She does not expect an answer. He decides he will not ask her any more questions about the war in her country. He has no stomach left for her games. In a sense, she has won. There is no war in her mind—as there is no real threat that could possibly exist in her husband’s mind. It must be the only way, the weary journalist decides, the two of them could function sanely from day to day, conducting interviews and posing for pictures in the gloomy grandeur of their haunted palace on the edge of a swamp.
Madame starts to draw.
“I’ve been accused of being a great dreamer. Oh yes. I dream not only at night when there are moon and stars, but I dream more so in the daytime…I admit, I dream awake, my eyes wide open. I could be dreaming right now,
di ba
? I believe in the power of dreams and the power of tears.” She draws a large crescent moon. The moon she surrounds with dozens of cartoonish, twinkling stars. She does not stop drawing. She fills every inch of the yellow, legal-size pad with stars and moons of all shapes and sizes. Her face earnest and intense, she bends over the paper and forgets everyone in the room. The foreign journalist is stunned. He keeps the tape recorder running in the silence.
Big round moons, thin wedges, moons with smiling faces, moons obscured by fat and fluffy clouds. She draws stars as ornate and fantastic as Christmas ornaments, stars with tails; at the bottom of the paper she draws jagged blades of grass. When there is no room left on the paper for her drawings, she looks up. Madame remembers why she is here, all dressed up in the immense conference room of the palace, with the bug-eyed foreigner staring at her.
The journalist.
He has been pleasant enough, not too unkind with his questions. Her feet still hurt. She is relieved the journalist came alone, without the usual photographer in tow. She is not in the mood today, and does not feel like putting her shoes back on. Enough. She smiles at the foreigner coquettishly, more out of habit than anything else. She decides he is definitely not her type. “Is there anything else, Steve?” she asks, implying that the interview is now over. Her face looms before him, a glamorous powdered sponge, a slice of white angel food cake, a white moon. “I should have been a singer,” she says, wistfully. “I could have been an actress in one of those romantic musicals, back in the days when movies were movies and everyone loved romance!
Ay
—where is romance, these days? Off the record, Steve. What would life be without movies? Unendurable,
di ba
? We Filipinos, we know how to endure, and we embrace the movies. With movies, everything is okay
lang.
It is one of our few earthly rewards, and I longed to be part of it! I was going to call myself Rose Tacloban, as a joke.” She shrugs. “Obviously, God had greater things in mind. I met my husband, and our destinies entwined. Together we served our country, and together we sacrificed everything. We were chosen by God to guide and to serve—” Her braceleted arm sweeps over the room, over her blue women, the imposing furniture, and her scattered blue, mother-of-pearl peau-de-soie pumps. “What greater destiny could there be? Everything you see here is God-given. I don’t know how to explain it any better, Steve. I am simply here to carry out our Lord’s wishes. It really isn’t about me personally. You can tell your readers Madame is simply fulfilling her destiny. There is nothing she wants for herself. Absolutely nothing.”
Rising from her elegant chair, she holds out her hand. The reporter shakes it, conscious of his own clamminess. One of the blue women picks up her shoes. The reporter thanks Madame for such an illuminating interview, and apologizes for taking up so much of her precious time. She does not apologize for anything. He is already forgotten.
Followed by her attendants, she glides down the hall in her stockinged feet, toward another set of double doors. She turns suddenly to face him, as if a thought has just occurred to her. “Excuse my husband for not being available, okay? This is one of his golf days.”
The foreign journalist nods. She is gone in a matter of seconds. He turns the tape recorder off, packs his tools into the worn leather briefcase. Notebook, pen, pencils, the fancy German microphone. The recorder he slings by a strap over his shoulder.
B
OY-BOY HAS ARRANGED
everything, surprising Joey with his seriousness and his plans. He hides Joey in his tiny apartment for weeks until the height of Christmas and New Year’s celebration; Boy-Boy counts on the cops being drunk and sloppy, more likely to look the other way. He tells Joey this with apparent confidence and experience. Joey is impressed.
For what seems a tedious eternity, Joey spends agonizing days and nights pacing Boy-Boy’s two rooms. He is insomniac and nauseous, subsisting mainly on tepid cups of powdered Nescafé with plenty of condensed milk and too much sugar. He chain-smokes the cigarettes Boy-Boy brings him. There are books scattered around which Joey cannot read; to pass the time he watches television. Boy-Boy’s secondhand, nine-inch black and white set does not meet with Joey’s approval. “
Ano ba, pare
—did you find this piece of shit in the
basura
?”
What Joey misses most is his easy access to dope, which Boy-Boy brings him on increasingly rare occasions. “It’s time you quit,” Boy-Boy said one morning. “Where you’re going, they won’t allow this.” “Are you sending me to hell?” Joey grumbles. He’s not sure what’s worse—withdrawal or boredom. “How long do I have to stay here?” he constantly asks. “At least you’re alive,” Boy-Boy tells him. His optimistic manner infuriates Joey. “If I spend one more day like this, I’m going to kill you or kill myself,” Joey threatens. Boy-Boy grins. Joey is pale and sick and thoroughly unconvincing.
Boy-Boy insists Joey watch the news on television with him. “What for? They’re all lying—you told me so yourself! It’s the government station,
di ba
?” “Read between the lines,” Boy-Boy says. He has learned to ignore Joey’s moods; he knows Joey is itching for a fight. Boy-Boy concentrates on what the anchorman is saying in Tagalog on the tiny screen. The sudden excitement in Boy-Boy’s voice rouses Joey from his surly stupor. “Did you hear that?
Shit
! They’ve let Avila’s daughter go!”
Joey’s anxious and impatient, craving a hit. Sometimes his body shudders uncontrollably; invisible worms crawl under his skin. He wonders if he’ll ever lose this terrible need. It is Sunday. “Get ready,” Boy-Boy tells him, “my friends are coming for you tonight.” Joey is sullen. “Who are they? Can’t you tell me their names? Where the fuck am I going?”
Boy-Boy ignores his questions. “Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough.” When night falls, a car pulls up in front of Boy-Boy’s apartment. A woman is driving. Boy-Boy, who has been watching for the car since the late afternoon, turns to Joey. “They’re here. Let’s go—”
“Who is she?” Joey wants to know, peering over Boy-Boy’s shoulder through the blinds. “Come on—you’re wasting time!” Boy-Boy glares at him.
He leads Joey to the waiting car. The woman does not acknowledge Boy-Boy, but says hello to Joey in a friendly voice. Joey barely glimpses her face before he is shoved in the back seat by Boy-Boy. There is a man sitting in the back, who blindfolds him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Joey starts to struggle, but the man is strong. “Relax, Joey. I told you this would be necessary,” Boy-Boy says in a low voice. After a brief pause, Boy-Boy pats him on the shoulder. “Goodbye, Joey,” he says, shutting the car door. “Let’s go,” the man says, brusquely.
“Why didn’t Boy-Boy come with us?” Joey asks, his voice shaking. He is trying to stay calm and trust these strangers, as Boy-Boy advised. The man beside him smells of musty sweat and old clothes. Joey takes a deep breath.
Okay
, his mind’s voice speaks to him now, in an urgent whisper—
so far, so good, Joey Sands.
“Boy has things to do in the city,” the woman who is driving answers. “He’s needed there.”
They reach their destination a short time later. Joey tries to guess—Pasay City? Quezon City? Greenhills? Maybe they drove around in circles, to fool him. Maybe he’s back at Boy-Boy’s little apartment, above the dress shop on a narrow, unlit street. Joey is led out of the car by the musty-smelling man, through a gate, on to a flagstone path, up two cement steps, through a damp passageway and up a flight of stairs. A sharp right, more stairs. A door is unlocked. Someone else is there, Joey can smell him. His loins tingle with excitement, he desperately needs to piss. “
Puwede ba
—” Joey hesitates. The woman laughs softly. Everyone talks in a low murmur. The blindfold is removed. Joey blinks at the fluorescent light in the square, sparsely furnished room. A tall young man with short hair and eyeglasses shows him the toilet.
The place is shabby but clean, one large room with adjoining kitchen and toilet. There are no pictures on the walls, no telltale souvenirs of any kind, no attempts at decoration. There is no shower or bathtub, just a toilet. The walls are cracked and peeling, painted a depressing pastel blue. There is a wooden table, and four mismatched chairs.
The toilet reeks of disinfectant. A single light bulb emits a weak yellow glow. Joey zips up his jeans, the clean ones borrowed from Boy-Boy. A large brown cockroach scurries across the floor, and for a moment Joey panics. He leans against the wall and shuts his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths to pull himself together like Boy-Boy taught him to do when he was crazy and sick.
Joey hears them talking in the other room, unable to make out what they are saying. He hears his name mentioned, and flushes the toilet. The three people turn to look at him when he steps out into the main room, The woman smiles. “Call me Lydia,” she says, graciously, as if she were a hostess at a party. She holds out her hand. Joey takes it, feeling foolish as he shakes her hand. She moves with swift self-assurance, her dark eyes darting and curious. “Would you like coffee? You have a long trip ahead of you,” she tells him.
“Maybe I should just sleep,” Joey says.
“Not yet,” the woman says, shaking her head. “We all have to be alert in case anything happens—” The other two men are smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, sitting in a cluster with Lydia at the table. She motions for Joey to sit down as she introduces them. “This is Rudy,” she says, pointing to the young man with eyeglasses, “and this is Edgar.” She gestures toward an older man who bows his head mockingly in Joey’s direction. Rudy puffs languidly on his unfiltered cigarette, ignoring Joey. The man named Edgar wears his stringy black hair tied back in a ponytail with a leather cord. A wispy mustache droops around his mouth; there are scars and keloids on his neck and arms. “Hello, Joey—
kumusta
?” he grins.
They are waiting for one more person, the woman explains. Joey yawns. She hands him a thermos cup of bitter coffee. “We don’t have any milk,” she apologizes. Edgar notices Joey flinch at the taste. He gets up from the table and rummages around the kitchen, finally finds a jar of white sugar in one of the empty cabinets. “I don’t know how long it’s been sitting there,” the woman says. Edgar shrugs, handing the jar to Joey. “Sugar’s sugar.”
The woman tells Joey their names are all made up. Edgar looks annoyed, but says nothing. “I’ve always loved the name Lydia,” the woman confesses, “I hate my actual name! What about you, Edgar? Rudy?”
Rudy looks infinitely bored. Edgar shrugs again, staring at Joey. “The reason we change our names,” the woman continues, “is quite obvious. That way, if any of us is captured—”
“Tell us what you saw,” Edgar interrupts. Rudy perks up, shaking himself loose from his boredom and smoke-filled reverie. Joey squirms in the hard wooden chair; his ass hurts. The woman pours everyone more coffee. “I can’t help myself,” she exclaims, “I’m everyone’s mother! Drink some more, Joey.
Sige
—we’ll be going soon.”
When Joey finishes his story, there is silence. The silence is broken by the sound of Edgar’s quiet laughter, a laugh of recognition. He slowly shakes his head, amazed by what Joey has told him. He leans over and touches the woman named Lydia, briefly and sympathetically. She looks away. Rudy is agitated, and gets up from the table. He peers between the slats of Venetian blinds that cover the window facing the street. “Where is that fucker?” he mutters to no one in particular.
When the other man finally arrives, he is introduced as Tai. Joey is blindfolded again and led down to another vehicle, something with more room, like a truck or van. He is wrapped in canvas and blankets, instructed to lie on the floor. “If we’re stopped, lie very still,” Lydia tells him. Rudy stays behind, murmuring goodbye to Lydia before retreating back into the dark shelter of the anonymous building.
Edgar is driving. Tai sits with him in the front seat. Lydia sits behind them, the bundle wrapped like a cocoon lying under the seat at her feet. “We’ll make good time,” Joey hears Tai saying.
“You were late,” Edgar says gruffly.
The road is winding and bumpy. Joey falls into a half-sleep; he dreams he is dancing on stage at Studio 54. The audience is booing. He is lathering soap all over his bloody clothes. He looks down at his body, which is flabby and fat. Uncle is sitting in the front row, the only one smiling and waving, a proud parent. Joey realizes there are other men onstage, behind him. The audience claps and cheers for the chorus line of dancing men grinding their hips. They wear khaki uniforms. They soap their uniforms. It is all unbearably funny; Joey wonders why he is the only one laughing.
He is four years old. He is in a fancy hotel room with his mother. She has long black hair and a sturdy body, and calls herself Lydia. She bends over to kiss him. She is not his mother—she is the hermaphrodite Eugenio/Eugenia. She wears a beaded flapper’s dress, her face garishly painted and her hair marcelled. He turns away from her kiss, and she begins to cry. She is not his mother—she’s Andres Alacran. He sits down on the bed next to Joey and shakes his finger at him. “Bad boy,” Andres reproaches him, “bad boy.”
He is back in the nightclub, dancing with soldiers. He is not Joey, he is Boy-Boy. His T-shirt is ripped, his jeans torn and splattered with blood. The soldiers wear lipstick and dangling earrings, they are a gang of hoodlums led by Dodoy, they encircle and menace him without missing a step. They dance closer and closer to him, pantherine and graceful. Joey wakes up, suffocated by the blankets loosely covering his face. He fights off his dreams, forcing his eyes open. He is groggy and exhausted. The blankets smell of mildew and mothballs. Joey’s muscles are cramped. They have been driving for hours.