Herself (24 page)

Flying into Okinawa was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever had from the air. Trip to then had been excessively bumpy, white clouds and up-drafts—we were apparently flying out of the typhoon that was on its way to Tokyo—little Ida of the vicious small “eye.” (It had bn explained to me that typhoons are the more dangerous the smaller the “eye” and the slower the pace—this one was crawling at 12 mi. per hr. and was expected to attain the strength of the historic one of 1934.) But finally we opened up to beautiful brilliant weather, and Okinawa which had always been a grim, long gray word in the war dispatches, first in the aura of death on the beaches, later, in the news dispatches post-war, a picture of quonset huts—peace-time soldier boredom turned out to be a long-craggy jewel set in a jade-patched purple sea very much like the sea that the Carmel painters attempted but never attained—a thin creaming line of white, where the reefs are, bordering the whole. Morgan had been there, said swimming was wonderful, barring moray-eels, groupers (bloody-mouthed fish, with retractable mouths, that I had seen in Bermuda) and poisonous jellyfish. The whole island, he told me, was crammed with their peculiar kind of cenotaph or gravestone—they having no separate yards but burying anywhere, and we had hoped to see some from the plane, but cdn’t.

The place is of course restricted—our passports were taken from us and not returned until we were again aloft—we cd see little from the barbed-wire enclosure around the terminal. Queer things these terminals set in various seas. Little limbos, equipped with postcards and a tired array of goods to take into the “other” world—and not the world of the living perhaps. Tin’s of Van Houtens Cocoa, American cigarettes in fly-blown cellophane, jewelry that might be hung on a tree but rarely by any mortal woman on herself. Odd to see automobiles, mostly service, with the license marked “Ryukyu.” Usual feeling that it cannot be me who is here.

Morgan obviously loves this travel, tho he has a wife and 4 children at home—told me that the two things he knew best were “soldiering” and—I forget the other, since the first, so obviously the wistful adventurousness of a N.J. banker, impressed me so much more. Then on to Taipeh. Could it be I was going there too! Conscious of being for first time in area near a war area, conscious at same time of how silly it seemed to make something of it, especially when a pleasant typical Amer. elderly matron, wife of some commercial tycoon traveling with us—hair marcelled, and with the token orchid given by some “company” at emplaning—said, awed, as we deplaned—“Well, this is historic, isn’t it!”

We all love to insert ourselves into history. But I am ahead of myself. Formosa, from the air, was as brilliant as Okinawa but in another way—it looks as rich agriculturally as anything I had ever seen—rice paddies the most brilliant green I suppose, but every inch within the circle of hills that encloses and intervenes, cultivated in some way. A flat green jewel this—no wonder China wants it. The surrounding hills are beautiful—the island from the air seems to have fine highways, considerable commercial areas, etc. A Chinese dignitary traveling with us was met by an enthusiastic horde of admirers—Chiang Mun Lee I was told—a doctor—and the usual Oriental popping of flash bulbs on any occasion. They want to be history too. He a nice old man, quite tall, refined face under floppy Panama. I prefer the Ch. physiognomy to the J.

Morgan left at Taipeh. Flight uneventful, dark. Tried not to have too much Scotch and champagne, but cd do better if had yogurt and raw carrots to substitute. Solemn thoughts, buoyed by liquor, of how long it will be, probably, before I see a raw carrot again. Wonder idly if C. realizes the awful responsibility of having separated me from all such amenities. No doubt. And possibly by now realizing some of that from which he has separated himself.

Is he by now hunting Tabriz for a home for us, having a hard time, wondering if Hortense will approve, can take this … or that. I must write to reassure him. To tell him that his company is well worth. Anyway must not play game of “wonder what he is doing now.” Have done a minimum of that. Too sterile. Yet moments jump, when it’s sharply sad not to be sharing. Then I do play it. Hope he is well, and no longer plagued by stomach, or possible woes of settling. Drive off concern, by cynically imagining possibility that while I so melt, he is at very moment with nice Curt—nose pressed hotly on some tumescent Persian navel. Very unfair that Oriental women shd be so much more attractive to Western eyes than most Oriental men. Or that those of the latter who appeal to me are the Indians and the Chinese—neither of whom I am likely to meet in numbers—altho many Chinese here. Stop the game.

Where was I? Ah, I arrive Manila. And this time they know me—or think they do. A real V.I.P. arrival, flash bulbs popping for me, reporters. Nice, very nice Embassy Cultural Officer Bill Dunne. Fresh from Laos—in the cab, free of all reporters and representatives except Alfredo (Fred) Morales, Pres. of the P.E.N. and head of Fulbright business here, discover that Dunne knows my old and first boyfriend, Herbert Stone, who was in Laos with him. Says H. is now in Wash, with Voice of America or S.D.—still somewhat a recluse—brought a fantastic library to Laos, also records, tapes, etc., also a fantastic bundle of experiences. Still single, tho hard to believe still for love of me.

In hotel, the three of us talk—I still wound up, unload far too much of my bag of tricks to Morales who is concerned about what I shall say Sat. morning to first group I meet—Eng. faculty of U. of P. Trot out most of ideas on literature that I find myself to have gathered from psyche during tour—and that shd be saved for morning. Getting thrifty on ideas as well as meals.

Anyway, ego gratefully expands at welcome—reporters trotting at elbow, everybody saying “we have been waiting for you—your heestory has been in all newspapers,” etc. Hotel staff very admiring, next morning sends in a dozen roses to rm—Bill says to his knowledge they have never done this to visitors he’s squired before. Hotel has swimming pool in back. In morning wd like to swim, but no suit—anyway Dunne and Morales come at 9:00.

Drive to U. of P. in embassy car—M. very explicatory on what we see. Many new buildings to replace bombings—Manila and Warsaw the worst sufferers of W.W. Two. Suspect however that they have always had a kind of tattered mishmash here—Spanish patio elegance whose concrete paint quickly peels, much Western-style building by those who do not understand it, side by side with incredible, really incredible slum. A cold country’s slums can be more concealed; these, open to the weather, tell all.

At University, meet head of Eng. Faculty, whose name I never catch. Difficulty is that, whereas in J., since I do not know their language, I can ask name to be repeated, here, since their language is English, and they have an excellent command of it, it is insulting to ask. But their voices are soft, accents sometimes severe—as with Ben Santos—tho not always. Anyway was given a long introduction—lots of Iowa students on faculty, will have a group meeting with them later in week. Among them one, DeMetillo—poet, critic, etc., who was at Iowa. When I ask who was there when he was, he says (knowingly?—via Santos?) “I was there when Curt was.”

I did well. I am becoming remarkably glib. Still, I remind myself, I merely have a few basic convictions, some basic prejudices—and happen to be able to manipulate them fairly gracefully, but no shame to it, since it is au fond simple, and
WHAT I BELIEVE
. However this constant glibness is wearing; the familiar academic fatigue, in which one’s own ideas, daily presented begin to seem tawdry, specious, superficial, unending obvious. And, as always, a false position to go on talking abt writing when one is not writing. Tomorrow talk to the P.E.N. group. Suspect I shall be meeting the same group of people everywhere.

In afternoon went wandering and got lost. Streets look built on square—ain’t. Discover am back of Dewey Boulevard, facing Manila Bay. Forgot to say that Morales, after lecture, took me and Dunne to tropical soda parlor. No other word for it. Same air of cheap sweetish color and shabbiness abt everything. Exaggerated or “real” counterpart of what any walker thru Sp. districts in N.Y. knows well. Had a dreadful concoction which is known in Tagalog as “mara puno hala,” coconut “with everything.” Stylistically correct, that phrase. Begins with shaved ice, on top of this a ball of ice cream—Morales substituted for my safe “vanilla” flavor a more adventurous one made from a coconut indigenous here, in which, unlike those we’re used to, the milk fills the fruit, is not confined to just inside the hard shell. Shaved ice filled with the milk. Whole thing topped with slices of custard—yes, slices—with a faint aroma of mace. Under ice various things discovered, retrieved, swallowed. Something shaped like long oval grapes, jelly consistency, rather like a chewy honey cough lozenge I used to have as a child—these palm nuts, I thought I understood. Also something looked like raisin, wasn’t. Chips of coconut. All vaguely sweet—too vaguely.

Upshot—in the afternoon walk—wandered into a Phil, version of supermarket, bought coffee and limes, and paid one
DOLLAR
for a box of Ry-Krisp.
RESOLVE
. Lost my way, in quite a sweat when returned. Climate wd be unbearable for constant consumption if thought of cooled room were not safely in mind. Anyway only me and mad dogs, Englishmen go out in noonday sun. Not the hot season here, I’m told. Really not too bad for short intervals—merely the constant problem of clothing getting really wet. One needs a fulltime laundry and endless cycle of cottons. Western men here wear the embroidered shirt (barong) outside the trousers—Philos conversely often affect the hotter Am. shirt, just as some, I am told, will carry Amer. cigs for show, at a party.

Came in for siesta and did. Smiling the girl fell dead.

Bill called for me at 5—took me around corner to his very handsome flat, where he was throwing a party for me. Guests USIS and P. intellectuals—no, mostly newspaper people. Met Mrs. Nakpil and husband. Tops, both. She, not the shriveled Ph. type woman who is so unattractive, but the more beautiful heavy-featured, dark—coffee-au-lait—something Malay in the features? Wore adroit pleated white chiffon gown I coveted—also envied long Manchu fingernails coated silver-white. Husband handsome, though didn’t covet—architect shortly going to states—I chatted Mies Van der Rohe, Eero Saarinen, talk very glib still. Told him about Des Moines museum. Also there: N. V. M. Gonzalez, who had been at lecture—teaches at U.P.—and is, as I already knew the “man of letters” preeminent—although Reinhardt says he’s not as good as Solianco and Joaquin. Neither of the latter there. Solianco very hard to meet especially.

Guests at party included Morli Dharem—critic for
Times
. Rather mincing, slightly self-important. Used to write short stories. Almost no Male in the Philippines, except for Americans, has
not
used to write short stories. Mrs. Nakpil, on my other side, compliments him across me—“Morli, you are so versatile, you do everything—plays. … etc. etc. If she is vitriolic, she conceals well. Morli replies with a mincy-wince—“Ah no, I fear I spread myself too thin.”

Also talk to Frankie Jose, editor Sunday
Times Mag.
and Rosalinda Orosa, who very shyly asks me how to begin to write—should she join a class like Ed Fuller’s, as I once did. Have already discovered that everybody knows everything ever printed about my life and hard times in U.S. papers—including old interview with Breit in
Times
,
Sat. Review
, when collection came out—biographical notes from old O. Henry’s. Apparently papers ran this all several days ago, thereby producing some confusion. Clips being old, I am represented as having children some 8 yrs younger than they are, etc. Orosa said one article said I write and devote a certain time to career, “squander the rest of time on children.” We discussed “squander.”

Virginia Moreno—lecturer at U.P., this one tiny-type, excessively matchstick of bone, very shy and nice despite being a “litry personality.” Easy to be one here, I think. Mrs. N. said Miss M. had written a “brilliant play.” From converse find, from Miss M., that this was in 1951—“Since then I have written a second, but opinion is divided into 2 camps as to which is better.” Curious combo of surface shyness—no putting oneself forth à la Calisher, conversationally—and a sense of importance, underwritten by belonging to “the group”—in fact she’s a mover and doer in all of them—that I would hesitate to own. Everybody calls her Virgie. A virgin perhaps too—wore engagement diamond. Had been at Bread Loaf. We talked of Frost. All these people have been to States on one grant after another—Amer. Leader Grants, etc., Rockefeller, Asia Foundation. The Morales there of course—she looks nice. N. V. M. Gonzalez the omnipresent. Someone, can’t remember who, says he’s heavy for symbolism—then he wdn’t have fancied what I said that morning, about “new criticism.”

Americans included Lewis Mattisons—they new here also. She attractive, grew up in Haiti. He very man of distinction handsome, but very quiet, and I think, lack of confidence underneath. The USIS gets a lot of former newspapermen, former radio and TV, former … former. So, they are not quite usual S.D. types, and sometimes one wonders, as here, as to why the “former.” But being less routine they are often—well, less routine. Mrs. M. did not know Ann Kennedy or Sheelagh, though had heard of—especially S.’s rep and marriage to a Haitian, no doubt. Wasn’t stiff at all abt it—as S. had said so many American old-hands in Haiti were—but said these marriages were an old story—and usually didn’t Work. (Had read reviews of S.’s novel, tho not the book, and said it seemed to be the “old story.”) Very nice gal; liked her. Something wistful, and Fitzgeraldish about her somewhere. They invited me to go on with them to the “Barrio” fiesta to be given that night at the Manila Press Club. The “barrio” is the name of the P. village which (today’s Sun.
Times.
[Fil.] in an article on the lack of literacy, says) constitutes 80% of the pop.

The U.P. club was decorated as much as possible in that style—straw booths, and stage-bamboo lattices on the ceiling, both hung with fruits and an occasional iron or stoneware pot. Beautiful vegetables—a squash like a long gourd that someone ought to paint or eat immediately, etc. Crowd mixed, Fil., Amer., Chinese mostly (Chinese pop is of course large, tho not as large as in other non-Chinese countries of S.E. Asia). There was to be a voting for a popularity-beauty queen; we were campaigned loudly, mostly by Amer., the minute we walked in the door. One candidate from each race, campaign manager always another race than candidate. Bar was full, there was to be dinner, native dances. On paper it sounds like the dullest possible comb. of the Iowa-Beauty-Queen or whatever-dance C. and I attended, plus the usual Saturday-night do of that country club in a dozen different colonies where “natives” are now admitted.