From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel

by Alex Gilvarry

  “You’re quite the toast of Broadway,” he said when he handed me the article.

  “Off Broadway,” I corrected him.

  “It’s only an expression. Don’t get bent out of shape,” Spyro said. And he let me read the review. Which I did.

  Try to picture your life adapted into a performance. Things are twisted for the benefit of the audience’s enjoyment. You see, it is more entertaining for all if I am the fashion terrorist. Michelle is more sympathetic as the victim. Motives make more sense once they are overly simplified. It’s all part of the entertainment. Events need to be fabricated in order to resolve the third act. That’s theater. Sure, everyone knows a play is a work of fiction. But out of that fiction the audience is forever searching for the one or two nuggets of truth. Which may they be? Maybe this one, maybe that one, they’re guessing. But who really knows? What you have is an audience of reasonable intelligence swayed by a bunch of actors telling lies. That’s what fiction is. Lies. Spyro of all people should know this, considering it was his Greeks who banned storytellers for their mental poisoning.2 Perhaps he was indeed asking himself as he read my own document: What can I believe? Is this true confession a flawless rendering of the facts? One must take into consideration the extreme circumstances under which I must compose my confession. I’m alone in my cell. I’m surrounded by a bunch of no‑good terrorists. I am under twenty-four-hour watch. While my little pen scratches this yellow pad, I practically have a gun to my head. (So to speak. Spyro would never do such a thing. Nor would Win or Cunningham. They’re all unarmed.) I haven’t the time to make a mistake. There are no rehearsals in No Man’s Land. Here it’s do or die…and shame on you if you tell a lie.

  I was so disgusted with what I was reading in the review of The Enemy at Home that I had to stop myself several times in order to consume one of the doughnuts Spyro had brought along. Lou Diamond Philips’s performance as Guy the Fashion Terrorist was called “heroic in light of such a dark tragedy.” And Chloë, who apparently “bares all” as Freedom, made “a debut of the highest order.” And would you believe, there is not a mention of me or my situation in the review. It is as if I’ve been completely forgotten. The play revolves around a fashion designer, loosely based on my life, and there’s not a nod in my direction. “In light of such a dark tragedy…” Yet no mention of what is so tragic. Not since Andrew Koonanan’s3 shooting spree, which ended with the tragic death of Gianni Versace (and thankfully one less Koonanan, who did his own honor) has a cloud this dark been cast over the industry, and already I’ve been forgotten.

  Anyway, after such a traumatizing experience, I really had no interest in reading Vogue. I flipped through the magazine merely to please my special agent, because he had brought it all this way. Its contents seemed irrelevant to anything in my life. I’m beginning to realize that as time progresses my career, my friends, my love affairs, each aspect of self so carefully detailed in my confession is growing less and less important to me. It’s as if by writing about them I am willing to let them go.

  Have I really suppressed something, like my interrogator suggests? Something so despicable I can’t even recall it?

  After a short while of feigning interest in the magazine, I put it down and ate the rest of the doughnuts.

  Spyro read through my legal pads with a steady determination, flipping through pages at a much quicker pace than I would have expected. No one should have to be put through a thing like this—sitting across from their most important critic while he scrutinizes the given work. It was my life, the truth, written down for him to judge. (The letter from the president has reminded me that it is my life on trial. I sometimes forget that. What an incomprehensible notion, being on trial for one’s life. It is almost impossible to fathom.) I would liken the experience of having my confession read like this to that of a fashion show, where editors and buyers make notes while viewing one’s collection. But at least as a designer one gets to wait backstage and isn’t subjected to their scrutiny head‑on. Spyro, however, remained a complete professional as always and rarely broke from his stern reading face: crinkled brow, pursed lips, etc. Only when he released a spurt of air through his nostrils did I relax. For I realized he was holding back a laugh. He found something in my confession funny. This placed me at ease. And he continued to read on.

  Where was I on May 25, 2006? Spyro wanted to know as he turned the final page of my confession.

  The significance of the date had escaped me, although I knew we were getting closer to the Overwhelming Event.

  “It was the day Ahmed was arrested,” he clarified. “Do you remember where you were?”

  “I can’t say that I do,” I said.

  “See if this will help you remember. You were at the Hotel Gansevoort. You had a meeting with Habib Naseer, or Hajji, as you know him.”

  Spyro was revealing to me for the first time that he knew much more than he’d let on. I recalled the period he was speaking of. Yes, I remembered. It was Fleet Week. The city was full of handsome sailors in their pressed whites, real men on R&R walking up and down Seventh and Eighth avenues and haunting those hideous Bleeker Street bars for Joanie and Chachi.4 This was a most stressful time for me. I was still trying to put the plans in motion for the overseas manufacturer to fulfill the Barneys order. The argument I’d had with Ahmed nearly a month prior had resolved nothing. I hadn’t heard from him since. And so I was a tad sour about the whole ordeal and grateful for the diversions New York’s annual seamen’s surge offered.

  Fleet Week in a lot of ways reminded me of the Manila of my youth, when my mother would take me on errands in the Malate district. From the window of our Mazda I’d often see tall, handsome Americans in khaki officer uniforms walking around the city with shopping bags, flirting on street corners with the college girls along Taft Avenue. Odd, but I remember wanting to be one of those girls, giggling at the attention they were getting from the Americans. For a young pinoy, soaking in the attention of Americans was something to be desired.

  I was, in fact, at the Hotel Gansevoort on the night of May 25 (I take my special agent’s word on the date), but I wasn’t there to see the man I knew as Hajji. I was there for a party, the launch of Philip Tang’s new shoe line, Size 2.0. Beforehand, I’d dined with Vivienne Cho at the Spotted Pig on raw oysters and a glazed pork belly. Nothing to report. On the way to the Gansevoort we went for a walk along the West Side Highway, then out to one of the piers to get a look at the ships parked in the Hudson, the massive vessels that transported the heroes back and forth from the war with the Iraqis.

  Watching the sailors walk along an adjacent pier in the distance, Vivienne said to me, “I don’t think I could love a man in uniform.”

  “Neither could I,” I said.

  “I’m being serious. A man who’s away at war. A soldier. To love one would drive me crazy with worry.”

  “You can’t love a man who’s around all the time either.”

  “With my record, you’re right. But at least I’d be getting laid daily.”

  “Sounds so penciled in. Sex is supposed to be spontaneous, an urge that comes over you, not a recurring event in your BlackBerry. Imagine the sex you’d have with one of these sailors home on leave.”

  “Honeymoon sex. It would be righteous. I’d be doing my country a righteous thing.”

  “Glorious patriotism. You’ve inspired me. I’m going to find myself a girl sailor tonight.”

  “They’re all lesbians.”

  “They are not. It’d be the perfect match. I would relish the fact that she’d be away at sea for most of the year. I would write to her every week, sometimes twice if I felt compelled. And when she came back I would worship the ground beneath her feet. That’s how I could make a relationship work. To be left in waiting for six-month intervals.”

  “The many upsides to dating a sailor. Look. Now’s our chance.” Vivienne pointed to two sailors on the pier who were out for an evening stroll. A man and a woman, timeless, as if Ralph Lauren had ma
gically willed them into existence. “We should invite them to Philip’s party,” she said.

  “It’s Fleet Week themed. They’ll fit right in.”

  “Perfect.”

  Vivienne approached the two officers and invited them, only they declined.

  “They say they’re not to stray far from base.” She indicated their ship, the USS Katharine Hepburn.5 “Isn’t that darling?”

  “Did you mention it was open bar? Did you mention models both male and female?”

  “They’re married to the sea, I guess.”

  What is it about a great body of water that gets me so sentimental? Standing at the edge of the pier, before those giant ships lit up like Christmas, I once again thought of my first day in America, when the Statue of Liberty was veiled in her mournful state, an image I refuse to allow my memory to relinquish to this place. On that day, among all of the mixed emotions stirring deep in my groin, I’d felt very much like a free man. To be truly and utterly free is very hard for me to conceptualize from the confines of this cell. But I do believe I felt it on that first day—real freedom. The kind people all over the world seek out in America. You see, real freedom is something tangible—it’s the American birthright—but it is also something that can be taken away without a moment’s notice.

  At approximately 9:00 P.M., Vivienne and I arrived at Philip’s party on the roof of the Hotel Gansevoort. Models in tight sailor whites strutted around in Philip’s heels, lace-ups, and zippered ankle boots. The waiters wore those old vintage deck uniforms with sailor gob caps. The pool was lit up, turquoise and clear. It felt as if we were on the deck of a cruise ship, floating above the rooftops of the meatpacking district.

  “Looks like we’ll have our sailors in the end,” said Vivienne.

  Philip came over to us cradling two models in officer uniforms, one on each arm. “Happy Fleet Week,” he said.

  Vivienne gave Philip a lapse greeting, a kiss without contact. They hadn’t been getting along over something that didn’t concern me, and this created a staleness in the air.

  “You look great,” I told him.

  “Me. I look like shit. I’m overworked. I’m just glad the shoes made it to the party. They were stuck in Milano.”

  “Milano,” I said, shaking my head.

  The girls released themselves from his arms and walked alongside the pool, modeling the shoes.

  “Black velvet with an open toe,” said Philip. “The other’s a patent leather burgundy boot with a two-inch heel. It comes in black, navy, platinum, and bone.”

  The girl in the velvet heels returned and introduced herself. “I’m Jeppa,” she said.

  Jeppa stood still, with her hands on her hips, one leg partly open to the side, her foot at a perpendicular angle.

  “Hi, Jeppa. I’m Boy.”

  Vivienne turned and waved to someone at the other end of the party. Philip was pulled away by a photographer who wanted a shot of him on a chaise lounge.

  “I know who you are,” Jeppa said.

  “We’ve met before,” I said.

  “I casted for one of your shows in February.”

  “Of course you did. How could I forget? Jeppa. What’s your last name?”

  “Jensen. Jeppa Jensen. But my agency makes me go by Jeppa only.”

  “The Iman theory,” said Vivienne.

  “How’s that working out?” I said.

  “You didn’t hire me.”

  “You’re kidding. I’ll fire my casting director.”

  “I don’t take it personally.”

  “Where are you from, Jeppa Jensen?” I always felt that using a woman’s full name created a playful intimacy, regardless of the formality.

  “Sweden,” she said. Her accent lilted with that pleasant lisp European women use when they speak English. French and Swedes and Germans all do this.

  “I remember now,” I said.

  “He doesn’t remember you,” said Vivienne. “Your uniform is getting his dick to move. Beware of straight designers who prowl rooftops in the night. You may get pounced. Stand away from the pool. I need a drink. Anyone?”

  “Ignore her,” I said. “Come, let’s all grab a drink.”

  A male model sailor served us three glasses of champagne off a tray. We moved to the bar to lean. I ordered us three ginger-flavored vodkas. Vivienne said into my ear, her breath hot, “You can thank me later.”

  “For what?”

  “I mentioned you were straight. How else would she have known?”

  “She’s working. I don’t expect anything.”

  “You expect plenty.”

  Vivienne turned to say hello to Carl Islip, a famous stylist.

  Jeppa pulled out a pack of Gitanes and turned to Steve Tromontozzi, a friend of mine. She asked for a light. She must have heard Vivienne’s petty attack on my masculinity, though she acted unaware. I used the opportunity to observe the outline of Jeppa’s bra under her arms and around her back, its black straps visible through the white cotton of her officer’s blouse. Steve lit her cigarette and she exhaled a plume of smoke into the night air. Jeppa was like some teenage dream. Platinum blond, fair complexion, hazel eyes. And I love Scandinavian noses, so unlike my own flattened olive. This Swede had the power to entrance! By my second drink I was ready for her spell.

  “Cigarette?” she offered.

  “Please,” I said.

  She took one more small puff off of hers and handed it to me. The fibrous filter was still moist where her lips had just been. She lit another off of Steve Tromontozzi, and I gave him a nod. I turned back to Vivienne, but she had gone. She was by the pool again talking to Leslie St. John and Rudy Cohn. I should go say hello, I thought. My affair with Rudy had long since cooled, but we still remained good friends. I turned back to Jeppa, who lightly kissed the edge of her Gitanes, then adoringly twisted her neck away from me to blow her smoke. I was about to suggest going over to join Vivienne when I felt Jeppa’s open toe graze my ankle. She had engaged me in a game of touch. I smiled at her. She played the innocent, oblivious to what she had started.

  Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.

  I looked down to see that I had already missed two calls from an unidentified number: 555. A movie number. I placed the phone back into my pocket, but then it buzzed again. Same number. I excused myself and answered it. The voice on the other end was unfamiliar.

  “What’s the big idea?” he said. “You don’t pick up?”

  “Who is this?”

  “What’s the big idea?”

  “Excuse me? I think you have me confused with someone else.”

  “He told me you were testy, but this…”

  “Okay. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Meet me in the lobby.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The lobby, Tenderfoot.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You can call me Horseradish. No names on the phone. Get it? I’ll wait in the lobby for two minutes, and then I’m splitsies.”

  “You’re in the hotel? Wait, how did you get this number?”

  He hung up.

  I apologized to Jeppa, excusing myself, and then took the elevator down to the lobby. It wasn’t hard to spot the man who had just called. He still held his cell phone in hand. And he was wearing one of Ahmed’s suits, the double-breasted gray plaid I had made custom. It was much too big for him. When he saw me, he spread out his arms, as if expecting a hug.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “I told you, call me Horseradish.” He turned a full circle. “What do you think?”

  “I think that’s not your suit.”

  “Come with me to my room. We talk there.”

  “I’m not coming with you. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “The suit. You know it. So you know I’m good people.”

  “Yes, but it is not yours. It is my business partner’s suit. What have you done with him?”

  “Keep your voice down. He give me the suit. I’m here to help you with
your manufacturing difficulties. I’m Hajji,” he whispered. “You know me?”

  “You’re here for this now? How did you find me?”

  “I followed you.”

  “You followed me?”

  “What, is there an echo?”

  “Why didn’t you just call? And where is Ahmed?”

  “He left town on business. Come upstairs. I got a room just so we can talk.”

  “I have a party to attend.”

  “Then let’s talk at the party. But I got a room because I figured you wouldn’t want to introduce me to all your fancy friends just yet.”

  “Okay, I see now. Let’s go.”

  I followed Hajji. In the hallway we passed a man I knew but couldn’t place. He was coming out of a room with a young model. There was lipstick smeared on his shirt collar. He was probably a friend of Philip’s. I nodded to him but he didn’t catch it.

  Once in Hajji’s room I got to thinking about my auntie Baby, the moneylender of Cebu City, who met her end in a setting very similar to the one I found myself in now. No one ever knew how it went down exactly, but since there were no signs of a struggle or break‑in, police suspected that the murderer was an acquaintance, someone she had dealings with. Someone she knew.

  I looked around, paranoid, trying to convince myself that nothing bad could happen to me in the Gansevoort. It was a fortress of luxury and hedonism at the gate of the meatpacking district. According to the celebrity blogs, Kate Moss had celebrated her birthday here just a few weeks earlier. I took solace in that piece of gossip. And Hajji and I had been seen in the lobby together. But then maybe my aunt had similar thoughts running through her mind, just before some son of a bitch came up behind her and put a bag over her head.

  “You want a glass of water?” asked Hajji.

  “No, I want to get back to my party. What are we here to discuss?”

  “You get right to the point, Tenderfoot. I like that.”

  “Do you even know my name?”

  Hajji opened his jacket to the label I had sewn onto the inside breast pocket.