“All agree he’s an old hand at rigging elections,” I said. “Not that there’s much enthusiasm for him, but everyone assumes he’ll carry it off. I still don’t see what help we can give him. He seems to have vote fraud down to a science.”
“There’s two months yet to go,” Sonarr said. “In politics anything can happen. Keep abreast of developments.”
“When are you going to blow my cover to Marcos?”
“Not yet. No need for it. When the time comes, I’ll let you know.”
“What’s the deal with Kevin? I don’t see how he fits in.”
“As yet, he doesn’t. But he’s there for when you need him. You’ll see.”
“Is this your ‘mushroom management’ all over again? Keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit?”
“Jake, you’ve got to get over that. There were reasons why I ran the Cambodian op the way I did. After all is said and done, everything turned up aces, didn’t it? I’m doing well in my career, you’re doing well in yours. If that Malibu lifestyle is making you miserable, I can recommend a good headshrinker.”
“I survived that Cambodia clusterfuck through no fault of yours,” I said.
“Jake, I would never deny you credit for your role in our success. That’s why you’re on this mission. It’s the first one that’s come up worthy of your considerable talents.”
“But you won’t give me specifics?”
“Patience and fortitude, Jake. You’ll see. How about some eats?”
“They fed me pretty well on the flight. Maybe a snack.”
“It’s time for another tourist ticket punch—a Singapore hawker centre. We’ll go to Newton Circus, very popular with the locals. You can get whatever you want there.”
We taxied over to the most amazing food extravaganza I’d ever seen—dozens of stalls each serving some exotic specialty, an outdoor mega food court. Singapore is a foodie paradise. In addition to Chinese, the population comprises Malays, Indonesians and Indians, and hawker centres offer the gamut. You wash it down with local beer or smoothies made of any combination of tropical fruits you can dream up, and top it off with ice kacang, a sno-cone concoction so indescribable that I won’t even try (Google it).
So commenced my Singapore sojourn. As it happened, that was the only business Todd Sonarr had to discuss with me. The upshot: Everything’s fine. Stay your course. Go with the flow. Await further instructions. I spent the rest of the week chilling out, so to speak, on that tidy little island, but the first thing I did was ring up Dana Wehrli in the morning, which was bedtime in Los Angeles.
“Oh, Jake, I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” she said. “Is everything all right? Are they shooting at you or anything?”
“Manila’s a dump, except the expensive parts. But no, I’m not in any kind of danger. I couldn’t call you from there, in case the phones were tapped. Didn’t want to blow my cover. I’m in Singapore right now, so I can call with no trouble.”
“Singapore? Wow! If I could go shopping there for just one day … have you seen the bird farm? People say it’s great.”
“I’ll be here for a week. I’ll definitely look into it. How about you? What are you up to these days?”
“You know, work work work. They’re keeping me running full tilt. I did a segment on Roger Moore replacing Sean Connery as James Bond. Now we’re putting together one about the Oscars—pretty blah lineup this year for best picture, but Amadeus looks good. Barbara Walters is so diva-ish, but Hugh Downs is a nice enough guy. So far he’s kept his hands to himself, which sets him apart in TV land. They’re sending one of the other 20/20 teams to the Philippines next month, seems that election is a very hot topic. All the papers and everything will be covering it. Do you know anything about that? Who’s Corazon Aquino, some local beauty queen? Have you met Imelda Marcos?”
“I was introduced to Imelda a party at their palace,” I said. “With the Manila glitterati and so forth.”
“Wow, you get around! I wish I’d been there. But they’re keeping me on domestic assignments for now. I’ve been angling for overseas stories, but everybody wants those. You just have to wait your turn. I don’t know. The Washington Post called what we do ‘candy cane journalism,’ but we’re holding our own in the ratings against Knott’s Landing and Hill Street Blues. I still like it.”
And so we passed a pleasant hour swapping trivia, assuring each other how much we missed each other and then ringing off.
And I picked up some useful intel: America was flooding the place with journalists? What was up that Sonarr wasn’t telling me? The International Herald Tribune and the Asian Wall Street Journal gave the Philippines some coverage, but in Manila honest news was rare, and as an investment banker I couldn’t very well go courting the opposition for inside info.
As for the rest of my Singapore week … I cruised the boutiques and malls along Orchard Road and picked up a collection of mind-blowing batik shirts. You couldn’t buy them in the U.S., something about an import-export tiff with Indonesia where they’re made. The gold shops took some attitude adjustment. Bargain for jewelry? No in Tiffany’s, but yes in Singapore. Once I got the hang of it I bought some 22 carat baubles for Mom, Dana and Dad’s wife, Judy. I looked in vain for a bird farm, but the Jurong Bird Park and its exotic, to-be-seen-nowhere-else collection of feathered friends was well worth the visit. On Sentosa Island I saw the coastal artillery that, legend has it, were pointed the wrong way when the Japs invaded (actually, the problem was malfeasance by the British Command). I wandered through museum exhibits. Was intrigued by the various styles of Asian arts and crafts. Sampled the food at a bunch of hawker centres and became addicted to roti prata with an egg and hawker coffee (a meal in a glass) for breakfast. Rode all over the island on double-decker buses for cheap sight-see tours. Doesn’t sound exciting? If you crave high adventure, skip Singapore. If raging hormones urge you toward wild times, join the Eurotrash in Bangkok.
*
I returned to Manila re-energized, but I was nearing the end of the list of plausible interviews, and people posed impatient questions about progress and estimated resolution of the loan. I had to stall them off and also come up with other ways to simulate investment banking. Nor did my meeting with Sonarr help me fathom what I was doing so important as to justify the five-star vacation I’d been indulging in.
While I was off to Singapore General Romulo died. The papers, both pro-Marcos and the opposition press, covered it lavishly and reverently. He was a genuine national hero, and the whole population mourned him. Therefore I was surprised to get a call from Beth Romulo the day after I got back. “Beth, I was so sorry to hear about your husband,” I said. “It happened while I was out of town. The Philippines will miss him. They need more such men right now.”
“Thank you for the thought, Jack. It was a last-ditch try, and he didn’t make it. They operated on his stomach, five hours of ugly surgery, and he never really recovered. Considering his age, there wasn’t much hope going in, but you do what you can. And you move on, which I will in due course. But to the matter at hand, the reason for this call at this odd time is that someone wants to meet with you, and being a fellow American they thought I might be the best person to arrange it.”
“I like meeting people. No hints who it is?”
“Not over the phone, but don’t worry. Trust me, it will be well worth your while. What’s your availability?”
“Clear calendar, at your party’s convenience.”
She set it up for the afternoon two days hence and gave me a Forbes Park address. I hired a Mercedes and driver on the appointed day, and the gateman was expecting us when we showed up. For the sake of good international relations I had the driver slip him a U.S. $20 bill, and we proceeded to our destination, a mid-range (for Forbes Park) bungalow that sprawled only to a modest degree (by Forbes Park standards) over a landscaped plot. My knock brought a small, matronly woman
to the door. Well-dressed, with lighter, Eurasian coloring, she carried her 50ish age graciously, her youthful beauty by no means faded. “You are Mr. Philco?” she said, looking me up and down.
“Yes, Jack Philco. Beth Romulo said I was to meet someone here. She didn’t give me any names.”
“In the circumstances, that was prudent. Come with me, Mr. Philco.” She led me from the foyer through a well-appointed living room to a lanai-like sitting room overlooking a swimming pool enclosed in a neat tropical garden. Hibiscus, bougainvillea, orchids and birds-of-paradise accented lush greenery with bright colors. “Sit,” she said, indicating a floral-print easy chair. “Would you like some tea?”
“That would be nice,” I said. She stepped to another door and said something through it, then returned. “You’re friend of Beth’s?” I asked.
“I’ve known the General for many years, and then Beth came along. We became acquainted on some trips we took with Imelda, and we hit it off. I was one of Imelda’s Blue Ladies, you see. Beth and I became good friends.”
“Beth pointed out some of Imelda’s Blue Ladies at a Palace soiree. Sort of like hostesses. You say you ‘were’ a Blue Lady?”
THE BLUE LADY’S STORY
“Yes, until Imelda drummed me out. Fine with me. By the time our falling out occurred I was weary of the whole business, and my husband was established securely enough that Imelda’s patronage no longer mattered. Oh, she can be vindictive, believe that, but she had so many things on her plate that she just banished me from her entourage and forgot that I’d ever been in it.”
A petite maid with a darker, native complexion arrived with tea service on a mahogany tray. She set it on the coffee table and poured while we talked.
“Beth didn’t tell me much about Blue Ladies. You mentioned trips. It’s more than just hostessing at parties?”
“Oh, much, much more. It’s unlimited, arbitrary indentured servitude. It’s being subject to the iron whim of a self-centered diva. It’s round-the-clock ass-kissing, if you’ll pardon my crudity. Imelda, you see, came from a home financially deprived and beset with family discord. Consequently, she always lusted for luxury and at the same time craved adulation. She blossomed into a natural beauty, which by Filipina standards is very beautiful indeed, and finished runner-up for Miss Manila one year. That brought marriage to Ferdinand, which was one solution to her needs—the luxury side.
“Her Blue Ladies are a solution to her need for constant attention. They mostly are wives of businessmen and government cronies whom the Marcoses have enriched. To be a Blue Lady is an honor and an affirmation of status, but also it is an obligation. The uniform is a traditional ternos dress with butterfly sleeves in pure white with a ‘Marcos blue’ sash. But that is subject to change according to her whim, which is not always in best taste, nor appropriate to the setting. For her audience with Pope Paul she was miffed to learn that only Catholic Queens could wear white, and that she must wear black with long sleeves. When he visited Manila she had us all arranged in a reception line, dressed in white with white parasols, to make her point and rub it in as he stepped off his plane. On other trips she dressed us in outfits quite out of keeping with the occasion, simply because they appealed to her at the moment.
“In addition to serving as hostesses at Malacanang Palace, and at the other palace she built at Olot, she always hauls along Blue Ladies in her traveling entourage, which could number as high as 100. One might think that free trips to luxury hotels in famous cities are a treat, but more often than not they were an ordeal. On short notice a few of us are called and expected to drop everything, pack and be off. Imelda has no consideration for anyone’s comfort but her own, so we were left to scramble for our own luggage and crammed into the cheapest rooms in those nice hotels. Sometimes she would present us with jewelry or watches or other expensive items that caught her eye. Other times she left us in the lurch to make our own arrangements back to Manila as she leapt at some freshly presented opportunity to party somewhere else. On a flight back from India once she kept us all awake with her interminable chatter, though we’d had only two hours sleep, until finally Beth quietly suggested to Ferdinand that Imelda might want to get some sleep so as to look her best when we arrived. We all loved Beth for getting us that break.
“And then there were the shopping sprees. She’d descend on the most expensive shops in New York, Paris, London, Rome, anywhere we were, buying anything and everything that struck her fancy. She’d see shoes she liked and order a dozen pairs in different colors, likewise with gowns, jewelry, scarfs, fur coats—for the Philippines??!—anything at all. Often as not, we’d then be expected to tote it back to the hotel for her.”
“You said you used to be a Blue Lady,” I observed. “There’s a retirement program?”
“No,” she said, “you offend her in some small way and instantly you’re persona non grata. My sin was, I demurred from going on one of her New York trips because it would mean missing my 25th wedding anniversary celebration, which had been long planned and arranged. That was the last call I got from Imelda. But at least she didn’t insist on my returning the jewelry she’d given me, as she has demanded of others. Oh, I enjoyed the travel and the prestige at first, but by the time we parted ways I was glad to be rid of that greedy sow. It is probably too much to hope for, but maybe come February the Philippines will be rid of the both of them.
“She has simply become too full of herself. When she attended the Shah of Iran’s glorious celebration in Persepolis she noticed a number of women wearing crowns, so she put on one of her diamond tiaras. Then she was told only queens could wear crowns there, so what did she do but turn it around and wear it backwards in her hair! No one could tell her not to wear her diamonds! There was the time, coming back from Rome, she discovered there was no cheese on the plane for her snacks, so she ordered the plane to return to the airport for some paltry amount of cheese.
“And everywhere, she sings, sings, sings! She has a nice soprano voice and knows every Filipina love song ever written. In her early days, Ferdinand was moving up the political ladder and she would sing at his rallies very charmingly. Now, wherever she is, if there are musicians performing she will contrive to take over the microphone and sing, not so charmingly. I think she truly believes that people enjoy it, when they are just enduring it because of her position.”
“From what I’ve been finding out, many of the people around here (I gestured with a sweep of my arm) owe their prosperity to connections with Marcos,” I said.
“True,” she admitted, “but enough is enough. Trade is not doing as well as it might, and the government has become ever more grasping and oppressive. There is more opposition to him in Makati than appears on the surface.”
“Is that why you wanted to meet with me, to talk about Marcos and the economy?” I asked.
She straightened, surprised. “Oh, goodness no,” she said, flustered. “You got me started on a topic that still rankles, and my motor mouth went into high gear. I’m not the one you are to meet, I’m just providing a venue for the sake of discretion. She’s waiting at the next door neighbor’s house. Let’s go over there before you set me off again.”
We exited through a sliding glass door, skirted the sparkling pool, slipped through a break in a hedge and continued across a manicured stretch of Bermuda grass to another glass-fronted lanai room. My Blue Lady hostess tapped on the door, and a tiny woman with big glasses came to the door and slid it open for us. “Cory,” said the ex-Blue Lady, “this is Mr. Jack Philco. Mr. Philco, may I present Corazon Aquino.”
*
I’d seen news photos of Cory Aquino. Her front-page impression was the squirrely girl who sat in the front row and always had her hand in the air—with the right answer every time. Up close she was a tiny, intense little bird, one that wouldn’t let an early worm get away. Her features combined Chinese with Filipina, blending the skin tones but sidestepping the ess
ential beauty of either influence. She greeted me with a friendly smile that gave her a pleasant look. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Philco,” she said. “It was recommended that I talk with you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Aquino,” I said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Would it be all right to call you Jack?” she asked. “And you to call me Cory?”
“Of course. What can I do for you? Who recommended that we meet?”
“That I cannot tell you, and he wasn’t clear on the content of our meeting, either. Tell me, what are you doing here in Manila?”
“I represent a bank that is assembling a consortium interested in making a large loan to the Philippines.”
“I see. How large a loan is being considered?”
“Not settled yet. Several hundred million dollars, possibly.”
“You are aware of the unsettled state of affairs here, I take it?”
“Unstable, seems the current condition.”
“Just so. May I ask if you have examined the current economic situation in the Philippines?”
“I’ve interviewed a number of people, been taken on a tour by Mr. Enrile and done some analysis of financial data and statistics.”
“I see. What are your conclusions, if I may ask?”
Her intensity was contagious, as was her forthrightness. “It looks fishy to me. Particularly, it seems there are large sums that go unaccounted for every year, and everyone I talk to gives me the same canned speech.”
“Good for you. I’m surprised you figured it out, the way the government cooks the books. Not everyone is as forthright as you. The sums go unaccounted for because Marcos and his cronies steal them. You get the same talk because you have been steered to people in the regime’s pocket. Do you think your bank will approve the loan?”
“Remains to be seen.” I said. “I haven’t yet submitted my report. Now you tell me something—your declaring candidacy for the president came as a surprise to many. How is your campaign coming along?”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 35