Dogeaters

by Jessica Hagedorn

  Jungle Chronicle

  Children who die very young are crowned with white flowers, dressed in their finest clothes and like adults, are brought to the cemetery in an open coffin; music precedes the coffin to the church, and the part of the cemetery especially consecrated to them is called, at least in Paco, the “Angelorio,” that is to say the place where the angels are buried. Instead of crying, the family makes great rejoicings, because they are considered as enjoying a privilege that no man can share with them, that of their children dying without sin.

  —Jean Mallat, The Philippines (1846)

  The Famine of Dreams

  (THE COLONEL WHO ARRESTED her has a baby face. He speaks to her politely in English. They arrive in an unmarked car at the recently renovated military complex. It is after midnight. Colonel Jesus de Jesus holds her by the elbow in a deferential manner, as if he were a gallant gentleman escorting her to a formal ball. “Contemplate your sins and your crimes here at our cozy Camp Meditation,” Colonel Jesus de Jesus chuckles. He takes her on a brief tour as he leads her down the maze of corridors toward the General’s special interrogation room, what some survivors jokingly refer to as General Ledesma’s “VIP Lounge”—for very important prisoners. “Here,” the Colonel points out proudly, “our state-of-the-art computer area, where vital information is processed and transmitted to our other headquarters. And here—the men’s room on the left and the newly painted women’s restroom on the right—for our occasional guests as well as our staff,” he adds, giving Daisy another smile. In the next building are recently installed shower facilities that can accommodate hundreds. And the food isn’t bad, he assures her with a wink. He flirts with his eyes and touches her freely every chance he gets, bending over to sniff the nape of her exposed neck. “Beautiful,” Colonel Jesus de Jesus sighs. The guard opens the door. “Good evening, hija,” General Nicasio Ledesma greets her.)

  At magandang gabi sa inyong lahat, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight’s episode of Love Letters is called “Diwa.” Brought to you by our sponsors Eye-Mo Eyedrops, TruCola Soft Drinks, and Elephant Brand Katol Mosquito Coils, “Diwa” stars the one and only Nestor Noralez as Ponciano Agupan, with Barbara Villanueva as Ponciano’s wife Magdalena, and Bootsy Pimentel as their daughter Rosalinda…Patsy Pimentel portrays Doña Ofelia, and Glenn Magpantay appears in a cameo role as Don Gregorio. This week’s special guest star is Tito Alvarez, who plays the mysterious drifter, Real.

  (In the foreground, the clatter of dishes and utensils being set on a table. In the background, the soft chirping of nocturnal insects underscored by a sweet, strange melody played by mandolins.)

  MAGDALENA: (anxious) Dios ko! Where is your father?

  ROSALINDA: Stop worrying, Mama. You worry too much, and you’ll get sick again, (pause) Why don’t you start eating?

  MAGDALENA: I’ll wait for your father. You know he hates to eat alone. ’Sus Maria! Where could he be? It’s so late!

  ROSALINDA: (concerned) Stop it, Mama. Sit down and get away from that open window. You’ll catch cold in the draft.

  MAGDALENA: Wait! (pause) Rosalinda, what was that?

  ROSALINDA: What? What are you talking about, Mama?

  MAGDALENA: (stage whisper) Shhh! Be quiet, (pause) Rosalinda—did you hear that?

  (The General turns up the volume. “Do you like these melodramas, hija? Kind of sentimental, don’t you think?” Daisy stares back at him. “Your late father and I shared a mutual respect for the remarkable culture of this country,” the General says, gazing at her fondly. He is sitting with his hands clasped on the desk, the radio on a shelf behind him. He nods to Pepe Carreon. “Would you care for a cigarette?” Pepe asks Daisy. “A glass of water or coffee? Have you had any dinner?” Daisy refuses to sit down.)

  More than an eyedrop. A trusted friend for over twenty-five years. Too much sun? Too much smoke getting in your eyes? Try gentle Eye-Mo for instant relief! (Followed by the merry Eye-Mo jingle.)

  The Merry Eye-Mo jingle

  When you don’t know

  What to do

  And your tired,

  Burning eyes

  Make you blue

  Sigé na, go get

  Your Eye-Mo

  You’ll feel better

  With gentle Eye-Mo

  Sigé na, sigé na

  Gentle. Eye-Mo!

  (A burly man is introduced as Dindo. One of our President’s trusted aides, the General explains. He has some questions for you. The questions are innocuous at first. Daisy stifles an urge to laugh. “When is your birthday?” “When is your sister’s birthday?” “Does your mother attend church?” The burly man’s face glistens with sweat in the air-conditioned room. “Have you been in contact with your cousin, Clarita Avila? What about your husband, the foreigner?” Malcolm Webb, the General corrects the burly man. “I’m fussy about details,” the General says. The burly man apologizes. “How did you meet Santos Tirador? Did you commit adultery with any other man before or during your relationship with Santos Tirador?”)

  (The sound of a door opening and closing. A chair scrapes on the floor.)

  ROSALINDA: Papa! What happened?

  MAGDALENA: (sobbing) Dios ko, Ponciano—my god, what have they done to you? Why…(gasps) There’s blood on your shirt!

  ROSALINDA: Papa! Mama! What’s going on? (The sound of moans in the background) You look terrible, Papa. Why don’t you lie down?

  PONCIANO: (groaning) No, no. I’m—I’m all right—(As Magdalena speaks, there are sounds of clattering dishes, faucets being turned on and off, water running into a basin.)

  MAGDALENA: (angry) Dios ko, ’Sus Maria Josep! Ponciano—why didn’t you listen to me? I knew something was going to happen to you—that dream I had last night, filled with dreadful omens…(tearfully) Didn’t I warn you? Sit down, my husband. Here, let me wipe your face with this damp cloth—

  PONCIANO: (groaning with relief) Ahhh—salamat, Magdalena—I feel—much better. Much. Better. Already…

  MAGDALENA: Where have you been? You didn’t go to the river again, did you?

  (Ominous music in the background.)

  PONCIANO: Magdalena, please. I…I don’t want to talk about it—

  ROSALINDA: Papa, what are you trying to hide?

  MAGDALENA: (accusatory) You did, didn’t you? You did it again—

  (“One of your father’s favorite songs,” the General tells her, “was ‘White Christmas’ by Bing Crosby. He only liked the Crosby version. Not too many people knew he was a sentimental man, with sentimental taste in music and movies…‘Give me Eartha Kitt, give me Benny Goodman!’ I used to say to him. This was in the old days, when your father socialized with me more often,” the General smiles. He shakes his head slowly at the memory. “Your father was a stubborn man. He believed in moral lessons. He wanted everyone to be perfect, to consider him as an example. That stubbornness might have contributed to his downfall, di ba?”)

  Thirst-quencher to the stars. The thinking man’s soft drink. After a long hard day at the office or at school—TruCola! For that quick jolt of energy, that fizz-boom-pop! That sunbeatable combination of Sunkist oranges and caramel soda!

  TruCola Calypso

  Ay, ay, arayl Bill

  mo ako nang

  Ice-cold TruCola!

  Sa-sa-sarap ang TruCola

  De-de-Oh! Delicious!

  De-de-Oh! Delicious!

  (The announcer’s voice returns while the TruCola calypso is still playing, to remind listeners about Diet TruCola and Cherry TruCola, now readily available at supermarkets and sari-sari stores everywhere.)

  (“Are you aware of Santos Tirador’s involvement in the recent ambush on PC troops near Sagada on November second?” the burly man suddenly asks Daisy. His tone is no longer courteous. Daisy has been momentarily lulled by the voices on the radio. Surprise and dismay show on her face. “All Souls’ Day,” the General murmurs. “All Souls’ Day,” the burly man echoes. “There were very few survivors among my troops,” t
he General says to Daisy, “which is very upsetting to me. You understand me, hija?” Daisy vows to remain silent, no matter what. She imagines she is not pregnant with Santos’s child, that somehow she will steal the General’s pistol and open fire on all the men in the room. She is barely showing, and wonders if the General suspects her condition. “The poet who sheltered you—Zamora,” the General-pauses, then looks at the burly man. “Primitivo Zamora,” the President’s trusted aide hastens to tell him. The General nods. “Yes—Primitivo Zamora. How long have you known him?” When Daisy still does not speak, the General seems disappointed. “Hija,” the General speaks softly, addressing her as daughter in tender Spanish, “I must warn you. Even I can do nothing about my men’s excesses—” He motions to Colonel Jesus de Jesus, who hands him the Polaroid snapshots. “Here, hija. Look at these—so terrible, don’t you think? A terrible, terrible fate. Terrible, really.” The General sighs. He points out the young man’s mashed testicles, the close-up of his gouged-out eyes. Throughout, the General keeps sighing, making clicking sounds with his tongue against his teeth. Daisy’s tears flow hot down her cheeks; she tastes the salt in her mouth. She tries in vain to stop crying, but her tears keep streaming down. “Look—” the General shoves the last snapshot in front of her averted face. “Look—my men rearranged him totally. A Styrofoam cup where his brains should be—isn’t that ingenious?”)

  (A knocking sound at the door. There is tension in the music, percussion and a taut plucking of strings.)

  MAGDALENA: (alarmed) Who could that be at this time of night?

  (More knocking sounds, this time more urgent.)

  ROSALINDA: I’ll go see

  MAGDALENA: No! Don’t!

  PONCIANO: I’ll go

  MAGDALENA: No! Shhh! (pause) Who’s there?

  MUFFLED VOICE: Real. I’m here to see Ponciano Agupan.

  PONCIANO: Let him in, Rosalinda.

  MAGDALENA: (frantic) Who is Real? Wait! Rosalinda—

  (Sound of door creaking open, and footsteps. Magdalena gasps. The music builds to a moderate peak.)

  (Colonel Jesus de Jesus asks to be first. He assaults her for so long and with such force, Daisy prays silently to pass out. Her prayers go unanswered. The other men crack jokes, awaiting their turn. “Lover boy talaga,” one of the officers grunts in admiration. When he is finished, the baby-faced Colonel licks Daisy’s neck and face. “My woman,” he announces, heaving himself off her. The room starts to stink of sperm and sweat. The President’s aide is next. Only Pepe Carreon and the General refuse to participate, preferring to stand in one corner and watch. While the burly man thrusts into her, the General leans over to whisper in Daisy’s ear. He describes the special equipment set up in another room, a smaller room where the General plans to take her after his men are through. “We can finally be alone,” the General says. He calls her hija once again, exclaims at her extraordinary beauty. He promises to make her dance.)

  Bananas and the Republic

  MADAME REVEALS: HER UNABASHED belief in astrology, the powers of psychic healing, Darwin’s theory of evolution, and the loyalty of her homosexual constituents.

  Her faith in a nuclear freeze.

  Her respect for Oscar de la Renta.

  To make a point, Madame removes one shoe. She holds it up for the foreign journalist’s benefit. “Local made! You see, Steve—they say I only buy imported products. But look, di ba, my shoe has a label that clearly says: Marikina Shoes, Made in the PI! You know our famous expression, imported? It’s always been synonymous with ‘the best,’ in my country—” She pauses to glance around the room at her hovering female attendants, all dressed in blue. Madame turns her attention back to him. “They accuse me of being extravagant, but I’ve owned these shoes for at least five years! Look at the worn heel…And this beautiful dress I’m wearing is also local-made, out of pineapple fiber, which we also export. I use top Filipino designers exclusively for my clothes and my shoes…Valera, Espiritu, Ben Farrales…And Chiquiting Moreno is the only one allowed to touch my hair! I am a nationalist when it comes to fashion,” she smiles. She has been lying to him cheerfully all morning, and they both know it. He smiles back.

  She shows him the mother-of-pearl heel of her custom-made peau-de-soie pumps. “I have big feet for a Filipina,” she sighs, “all my shoes have to be special ordered.” Pale blue, sky blue, virgin blue, happy blue, mother-of-pearl blue shoes. Her own designs, she tells him proudly. Her favorite color, blue. A color which for her signifies harmony, peace, her serene oneness with the universe.

  Queen of beauty queens, Miss Universal Universe, Miss Bituin, Madame Galactica, Madame International, Maganda, Pearl of the Orient, Pacific Rim Regina, Mother of Asia, Land of the Morning, Miss Bahay Kubo, Miss Manila, Lunaretta, Moonlight Sonata, Bini-bining Pilipinas, Jet-Set Ambassadress of Adobo and Goodwill, whose unwrinkled face reflects the shining love, the truth burning in her heart…Mother of Smooth Alabaster Complexions, Hairdo of Eternity, Calculating Mother of Noncommital Mouth and Eyes…O Perennial Indifference! O Lizard-Pouch Chin! Defiantly held up for the cameras, every photo opportunity seized…

  Madame uses her favorite American expression as many times and as randomly as possible throughout her interview. “Okay! Okay! Okay lang, so they don’t like my face. They’re all jealous, okay? My beauty has been used against me…I’ve been made to suffer—I can’t help it, okay! I was born this way. I never asked God—” she sighs again. “Can you beat that, puwede ba? I am cursed by my own beauty.” She pauses. “Do you like my face?”

  The reporter tries not to look astonished. His tape recorder running, he also scribbles down everything she says in his notebook. She appraises and dismisses him swiftly, noting his hairy arms, cheap tie, limp white shirt, and dreary wing tips.

  He avoids answering her sudden question, affecting a light attitude which rings false. “You’re turning this around, Madame—don’t forget, I’m interviewing you,” he grins, but she does not smile back. He hopes he only imagines that her eyes harden. “Don’t worry, Steve, I never forget.” She looks back at her blue women and smirks. The reporter keeps his voice steady. “What about the young man arrested by Ledesma’s men earlier this week?” He glances down at his notes. “I believe his name was Orlando Rosales. Are any formal charges being made?”

  Madame shakes her head slowly. She affects a look of sadness, which she does well. “You should interview General Ledesma and Lieutenant Carreon about that. These are terrible times for my country, Steve. Do you mind if I call you Steve? Good.” She pauses. “Ay! So much tragedy in such a short time! It’s unfortunate, all this violence. Thanks be to God for our Special Squadron, a brutal assassin has been apprehended…”

  “Orlando Rosales was shot down in the middle of a busy intersection, in broad daylight. He was taken immediately to Camp Dilidili, and no one was allowed to see him. His fiancée claimed he was an innocent man, on his way to see her for their regular lunch date. He had no known political affiliation, and since giving her testimony, his fiancée has disappeared,” the reporter says, in a neutral voice.

  Madame looks surprised. “Is that so? No one’s told me anything about it.” She decides he reminds her of some sort of insect, with his long legs and arms and bulging brown eyes enlarged by thick, wire-rimmed glasses. Is he Jewish? She sniffs in distaste. Her face remains a cordial mask. “You know, Steve—Orlando Rosales had a gun. How do you foreigners explain that? The same gun that shot Senator Avila! He was also shooting back at the police.”

  “He was a waiter, wasn’t he?”

  “That was his job, yes. His assumed identity. Oh, he was brilliant, Steve. Quite a brilliant, sophisticated young man. What we call here a genuine ‘intelektwal,’” she smiles. “This had been planned for some time, planned very carefully. Even this whole business with that poor fiancée of his—she was his unwitting accomplice. How do you say it? His ‘foil,’ di ba?” She looks pleased with herself. “General Ledesma was aware of a plot, but no one was sure whe
n the assassin would strike. We tried to warn Senator Avila, but—” Madame sighs deeply this time. “Orlando Rosales had everyone fooled, including his own mother.” She describes an investigation after the assassin’s arrest, linking him to a known group of subversives based in the Cordilleras. She laughs. “Steve—you know the latest joke? NPA—for nice people around.”

  “What about Daisy Avila? Rumor has it she’s been captured and detained.”

  There is a brief, tense moment of silence. “I am unable to discuss Daisy Avila,” Madame finally answers. “It is a matter that pertains to our national security. But I will tell you this, okay Steve? As far as I know, Daisy Avila is still in the mountains. Another poor girl, led astray by that evil man! You should really interview General Ledesma about all this. Okay, Steve?” She brings up her favorite movie in English, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. “I feel like the poor hunchback. Here was this ugly man, okay? But such a beautiful spirit! I know Anthony Quinn quite well, Steve. Do you know Anthony Quinn?”

  “No, but I saw him in Zorba the Greek on Broadway.” He does not know why he responds, and feels foolish.

  “Ay, talaga! You’re from New York?” She visibly warms to him, and becomes more animated as she talks. “I should’ve guessed—you look like a New York intelektwal!” she giggles. “Didn’t you think Anthony was better in the movie version? Tony was much younger then, di ba?”

  Madame confesses: How privileged she feels, as the wife of the leader of an emerging and prosperous nation and as the mother of such intelligent, unspoiled children. “My daughter is at Princeton,” she reminds the journalist. Her laugh is bitter. “People talk about corruption. That is what you’re implying, isn’t it, Steve? Okay, you say. We are a corrupt regime—a dictatorship. Dios ko! We’ve been accused of throwing our bananas in the garbage to purposely rot while children starve. We make deals with the Japs. Our sugar rots in warehouses, daw. Meanwhile, everybody’s starving. We take your precious dollars and run—but where will we run, Steve? You can run but you can’t hide, di ba? Naku! I wouldn’t look like this if I were corrupt, would I? Some ugliness would settle down on my system. You know the common expression—‘ugly as sin’? And I don’t mean the Cardinal—” Madame giggles girlishly again. One of her blue ladies pours her more tea and refills the journalist’s coffee cup. “There’s truth in common sayings, di ba? If I were corrupt, I would look like that other movie, Dorian Gray. Di ba, he got uglier and uglier because of all the ugliness in his life?”