Hoy, what are you trying to prove? Your kalocohan I don’t understand. We got movies late in those days, don’t you remember? They advertised them as “first-run,” but it wasn’t like it is now; back then, the movies were as much as two or three years behind the times, and I don’t think that one was in color, that one you keep describing with Rock Hudson. Oye, prima—Rock is still my idol, I should know! And that one with Shelley Winters and Liz Taylor—I don’t remember saying Shelley deserved to die, I would never say anything like that—even if she is really sin verguenza, she let herself go to the dogs and get fat, did you ever see The Poseidon Adventure? I tell you, I never saw that movie in my life! If you’re gonna talk about the past, don’t say I said horrible things I never said, puwede ba, how could you do that to me? I don’t think it’s very funny, not at all. I never went to movies condemned by the Church. Chica, I may be a divorced woman like you say, but I don’t spit in the eyes of God and willingly commit sin! You’re mixing me up with someone else.
I may not remember all the details, but I certainly should know WHO was making eyes at me in the Café España that fateful afternoon! It was my first husband, Ramon Assad. Puwede ba, he was never fat, not ever in his life—in fact, we used to call him “Ting-Ting”—I think you made that up, you were always good with nicknames. Ramoncito was so skinny he reminded you of a broom, “walis ting-ting!” How can you forget that? And he had pretty eyelashes and perfect skin—you used to tease me about it. How can you call him fat and ugly? Look at me—I’m fat now, but still sexy. He was crazy for my boobs and my hips—he liked his women big. Ramoncito was never fat, he could eat and eat and he made me eat with him; he never gained a pound. My mother thought he had tapeworm. Plus he never beat me—the reason I left was because I was tired of supporting him. How could you mix him up with that baboy Boomboom Alacran?
Well, you never liked Ramoncito, and he knew it. For once in your life, you were probably right. He was a lousy husband, except in the sack. My mother warned me: “You can’t live on kisses alone.” I almost did, but God brought me to my senses. I just want you to get my damn history straight, Rio—puwede ba, it matters to me.
Maybe the movie was in color, maybe not. That’s not what’s important. Oye, prima—this much is true, you’d better wake up and accept it: 1959 was many years ago. Your mother’s father is alive. Your Lola Narcisa is dead. Our abuelito and abuelita are alive and well and living in Mallorca with Tito Cristobal. Your father isn’t poor—how can you lie about such big things? Belen Garcia is still married to your brother, who works for your father at Intercoco. Your mother and father are still together. Nobody’s perfect, Rio—but your parents stayed married no matter what, through thick and thin and your father’s kalocohan, thanks be to God.
Pobrecita naman, Isabel Alacran died of cancer in 1967—but everyone else is fine, I’m telling you!
Nothing is impossible, I suppose, with that crazy imagination of yours. I’m not surprised by anything you do or say, but if I were you, prima, I’d leave well enough alone.
Kundiman
OUR MOTHER, WHO ART in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. Thy will not be done. Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom never came. You who have been defiled, belittled, and diminished. Our Blessed Virgin Mary of Most Precious Blood, menstrual, ephemeral, carnal, eternal. Rosa Mystica, Black Virgin of Rhinestone and Velvet Mystery, Madonna of Volcanoes and Violence, your eye burns through the palm of my outstretched hand. Eye glowing with heavenly flames, one single Eye watching over me, on earth as it is in heaven.
Dammit, mother dear. There are serpents in your garden. Licking your ears with forked tongues, poisoning your already damaged heart. I am suffocated by my impotent rage, my eyes are blinded by cataracts blue as your miraculous robes, I listen intently for snatches of melody, the piercing high-pitched wail of your, song of terror.’
Here, clues to your ghostly presence in the lingering trail of your deadly perfume: wild roses and plumeria, the dizzying fragrance of damas de noche, the rotting bouquets of wilted sampaguita flowers you cradle in your arms.
I would curse you in Waray, Ilocano, Tagalog, Spanish, English, Portuguese, and Mandarin; I would curse you but I choose to love you instead. Amor, amas, amatis, amant, give us this day our daily bread.
Our mother who art, what have those bastards gone and done now? Your eyes are veiled and clouded by tears, veiled but never blinded. Dazzle us with your pity, let the scars tattooed on your face be a reminder of your perennial sorrow. Kyrie eleison. Kyrie eleison. Lamb of goddammit who taketh away the sins of the world!
My dim eyes scan the shadows in vain, Ave Maria full of grace, ha missa est. Manila I was born here, Manila I will die here, tantum ergo sacramentum. So the daughters say, so the sons seek out miracles, so the men will not live to see the light.
Your long monkey toes grip the hairy coconuts strewn at your feet, virgin with one ear pierced by a thorn. Stigmata of mercy, the blood of a slain rooster spouts from the open palms of your monkey hands, stigmata of beautiful suffering and insane endurance, Dolores dolorosa. Spilled blood of innocents, dead by the bullet, the dagger, the arrow; dead by the slingshot of polished stones, dead by grenades, hunger and thirst; dead by profound longing and profound despair; spilled blood of ignited flesh, exploded flesh, radiated flesh; spilled blood of forbidden knowledge, bless us, Mother, for we have sinned.
Our Mother who art in heaven, forgive us our sins. Our Lady of Most Precious Blood, Wild Dogs, Hyenas, Jackals, Coyotes, and Wolves, Our Lady of Panthers and Jaguars, Our Lady of Cobras, Mournful Lizards, Lost Souls, and Radio Melodramas, give us this day; Our Lady of Typhoons, deliver us from evil, forgive us our sins but not theirs.
Ave Maria, mother of revenge. The Lord was never with you. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed are the fruits of thy womb: guavas, mangos, santol, mangosteen, durian. Now and forever, world without end. Now and forever.
Acknowledgements
THE AUTHOR WISHES TO acknowledge the MacDowell Colony, the Writer’s Room, and the Center for American Culture Studies at Columbia University for space, support, and sustenance during the writing of this book. The New York State Council for the Arts provided several writer-in-residence grants which are deeply appreciated.
Special thanks to my friend and agent, Harold Schmidt, for believing in this book, and to my wonderful editor, Helena Franklin, for her fussing, caring, and attention to detail.
And to Luis Cabalquinto for his poem “The Dog-Eater,” which appeared in the American Poetry Review, Nov.–Dec. 1984: salamat.
I am also grateful to Santiago Bose, Thulani Davis, Luis H. Francia, Ramon Hodel, Erlinda Cortes Brobston, and Renee Montagne. There are many other people I wish to thank, both here and in the Philippines, for their assistance on this project; life being what it is these days, I think it would be wiser to be discreet.
Author’s Note
THIS IS A WORK of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where the names of actual persons, living or dead, are used, the situations, incidents, and dialogue concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict any actual events or change the entirely fictional character of the work.
This book includes actual quotations from The Philippines by Jean Mallat (though the titles I have given them are my own), from the Associated Press, from a poem by Jose Rizal, and from a speech by President William McKinley. All other material presented as quotations from newspapers are fictional, as is The Metro Manila Daily itself.
About the Author
Jessica Hagedorn is the author of Toxicology, Dream Jungle, The Gangster Of Love, and Dogeaters, which won the American Book Award and was a finalist for the National Book Award in fiction. She is also the author of Danger and Beauty, a collection of poetry and prose, and the editor of Charlie Chan Is Dead: An Anthology of Contemporary Asian American Fiction. Her plays include Most Wante
d, the Heaven Trilogy, and the stage adaptation of Dogeaters. Hagedorn recently edited Manila Noir, a crime fiction anthology, for Akashic’s acclaimed Noir series. She teaches in the MFA creative writing program at Long Island University–Brooklyn. For more information, visit www.jessicahagedorn.net.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by Jessica Hagedorn
Cover design by Sangeeta E. Ramcharan
978-1-4804-4020-3
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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