They’re techniques I got from the LAPD, Tomas says, trying to hold his stare. You can call my friend on the force right now if you want to. He’d be happy to talk.
The man shakes his head dismissively. There’s no need for that. He studies Johan. No. What bothers me is this one’s got a small skull. And his cranium above his eyes is too shallow, shows he isn’t as smart as his mother.
Tomas starts to speak but the man turns away from him, towards the Mexican lady. What do you think, Lucinda?
She puckers her lips distastefully. I do not care about the size of the skull.
I know you don’t.
She comes over and rubs Buster. I like this one.
I could tell you did. Why?
This one, she has a bigger heart than the boy. He is too young and restless. The woman shakes her head as she studies Johan. You will never know how such a young one will turn out.
Tomas looks angry that the maid would interfere with the sale. Actually, he’s the quietest one in the litter, he says. Sleeps all night.
She crosses her arms. I don’t think so.
My brother must be standing ten feet away from her. He stares at her meanly, keeping his face turned from the man. Hey, do you think you could get us a glass of water or something? he says. It’s getting hot in here.
I stiffen.
She does not look pleased. She turns to me. What would you like, little one?
I shrug. A Pepsi?
She nods and does not ask Tomas what he wants and starts towards the kitchen, but the man comes over and touches her shoulder. I’ll get it, honey, he says, then looks hard at Tomas. My wife’s been busy all morning, he says. I’ll get you your water if you’re so thirsty.
Tomas’s face goes red. His arms hang loosely at his sides.
She’s not my maid, you know, the man says.
Tomas attempts not to hesitate. I didn’t think she was your maid, mister. I was only thirsty.
The man does not answer my brother but looks towards the window, at the sunbathed mountains and the shadow of a cloud that drifts over its curves and ridges. Sunlight catches a pool table corner.
We just didn’t want to get the wrong glasses or anything. Gabe will get us the water.
Hearing my name, I come to attention. All their eyes fall on me.
Sure, I tell them.
No, the man says. I’ll get it.
He stops me with a heavy hand and leaves the room. We stand awkwardly with the lady. Tomas occupies himself by rubbing Johan, not looking up. I try to catch his eye but he hides his face from me.
When the man returns he sets the glasses on the bar counter so I have to get them and give one to Tomas. The way the lady watches me I get the feeling she does not think I should have to do this.
The man’s arms are crossed, and he stares at Tomas.
Look. I’m paying you eight thousand dollars. I’m overpaying you as it is. Even the mother can’t be worth that much.
My brother tries not to look away. Well, she ain’t for sale.
Then you’d better leave.
Tomas shifts his weight from one foot to another and his hands are in his pockets. The lady glances at me, then touches the celebrity’s arm and says: Wait. I like this dog. The mother.
He looks at her wearily. You really do, honey?
Really.
He scratches the stubble on his chin in a grave and thoughtful manner. You love it?
She nods, turning briefly to me and winking.
He sighs. He turns to Tomas. Okay, son. You heard the woman. She wants this dog. How about I buy both of them from you for the inflated sum of nine thousand dollars each.
Tomas looks like he wants that money real bad. I can’t, he finally says, his voice threatening to break.
That’s eighteen thousand dollars.
I know it.
You are turning down a lot of money for two dogs.
Tomas looks at his feet, then back up again. I can’t.
Well then. How about I pay you eight thousand for the boy dog and twelve thousand for the mother. That’s twenty thousand.
Tomas presses his finger into the railing and he watches as his thumb knuckle goes white.
Please, mister. She’s a pet. Can’t you just buy the boy dog?
My brother has not pleaded with anybody like this in years. Probably not since our father left us, and he had to do a lot of pleading back then. There is almost hurt in his voice and he looks down at Johan. Listen. I promise you I’m not conning you. This one boy dog’s my favorite dog next to Buster. His head’s small, that’s true, but his ears are shaped so you know he’s physically balanced and his temples are placed right up to it, not too high or low, which shows he’s got a good temperament.
He looks aside and shudders a deep breath. His shirt grows at his chest and his biceps expand outward, to make room, then fall alongside his ribs again. The man studies him for a long time. He finds a checkbook and writes Tomas a check and takes Johan’s leash. After rubbing him, he looks at Buster and shakes his head. He dwells on her for a very long time.
I’m sorry. I can understand she’s your pet. But if you ever change your mind about this dog, we can deal. I assure you she’d have a good home with her son. You call us. You call me.
Sure, Tomas says, pocketing the check.
On our way down the steps he wipes a shoulder against his eyes. It could be the wind—I am not sure—but I am so surprised that without thinking I blurt out, Are you crying?
His knuckles hit me hard, so fast I didn’t see it coming. My tongue prods at the shreds of my inner cheek, and salty blood floods my mouth.
Jesus, I say, why’d you do that?
Then his fist comes into my gut, sending me forward at the waist, then his elbow comes around the sharp bone of it, sending me sideways onto the driveway, the concrete meeting my temple. The surface feels grainy against my cheek and the torn pieces inside stick to my molars.
Don’t you fucking talk disrespect to me.
I wasn’t disrespecting you.
Don’t you overstand me with your Flip, peasant Spanish.
I was only answering the lady’s questions, I start to say, but am interrupted by the bottom of his shoe, the gum and sole and dirt pressing into that part of my face where I feel things the most.
IMMIGRATION BLUES
from THE MAN WHO (THOUGHT HE) LOOKED LIKE ROBERT TAYLOR
Bienvenido Santos
—I’m only trying to help you. We should help each other in this country.
—Look who’s talking. You the guy who run away when you see an old Pinoy approach you. You tell me that yourself. You can’t deny.
—That’s different. Most of these o.t.’s are bums.
—Ina couple more years, you’d be one of ’em.
—Not me. I save. I make no monkey business. When I retire I’ll have everything I need.
—Except friends.
—Who need friends. Besides, I got friends.
—That’s what you think. You’re gonna lose one now. These guys you’re scare are our countrymen.
—Who told you I’m scare? I just avoid ’em, that’s all. Some of ’em give me bad time, like I’m a sucker.
—You look like one, that’s why. But don’t you see, these old guys are lonely.Born in Tondo Manila, in 1911, BIENVENIDO SANTOS was one of the most important, beloved, and widely read writers from the Philippines. His books include the short story collections You Lovely People and Scent of Apples; two books of poetry; and five novels, including The Praying Man, The Man Who (Thought He) Looked Like Robert Taylor, and What the Hell for You Left Your Heart in San Francisco. During his lifetime, he taught at Ohio State University and Wichita State University. In 1980, he was awarded an American Book Award for The Scent of Apples, his only book to be published in the United States. Santos died in 1996.
—Lonely, my balls! After the soft talk come the soft touch, the cry story.
—How I pity you. . . . Because you should’ve experie
nce the other vice versa. Like I have. They take you to their homes, feed you till you burp. Especially those Pinoys who don’t have no contact with other Pinoys. They show you off to their American wife like lost brother. Like they never get a chance to speak the dialect for years and they just keep talking, never mind the wife who don’t understand. And when it’s time for you to leave, you know you aren’t going to see each other no more. Their eyes shine like they’re crying. . . .
—I seen tearful fellow myself, but I think he got sore eyes. He should’ve been ina hospital.
—Have you been to their homes? The walls, they’re cover with Philippine things. They’re always shoving albums to you. Some of ’em even got the map of Philippines embroidered somewheres. But what’s the use, my smart aleck paisano, you won’t recognize loneliness even it’s serve to you on a bamboo tray. . . .
Through the window curtain, Alipio saw two women, one seemed twice as large as the other. In their summer dresses, they looked like the country girls he knew back home in the Ilocos, who went around peddling rice cakes. The slim one could have passed for Seniang’s sister as he remembered her in the pictures his wife kept. Before Seniang’s death, they had arranged for her coming to San Francisco, filing all the required petition papers to facilitate the approval of her visa. She was always “almost ready, all the papers have been signed,” but she never showed up. His wife had been ailing and when she died, he thought that, at least, it would hasten her sister’s coming. The wire he had sent informing her of Seniang’s death was not returned nor acknowledged.
The knocking on the door was gentle. A little hard of hearing, Alipio was not sure it was distinctly a knocking on wood that sounded different from the little noises that sometimes hummed in his ears in the daytime. It was not yet noon, but it must be warm outside in all that sunshine otherwise those two women would be wearing warm clothes. There were summer days in San Francisco that were cold like winter in the mid-West.
He limped painfully towards the door. Until last month, he wore crutches. The entire year before that, he was bed-ridden, but he had to force himself to walk about in the house after coming from the hospital. After Seniang’s death, everything had gone to pieces. It was one bust after another, he complained to the few friends who came to visit him.
“Seniang was my good luck. When God decided to take her, I had nothing but bad luck,” he said.
Not long after Seniang’s death, he was in a car accident. For about a year, he was in the hospital. The doctors were not sure he was going to walk again. He told them it was God’s wish. As it was he was thankful he was still alive. It was a horrible accident.
The case dragged on in court. His lawyer didn’t seem too good about accidents like his. He was an expert immigration lawyer, but he was a friend. As it turned out, Alipio lost the full privileges coming to him in another two years if he had not been hospitalized and had continued working until his retirement.
However, he was well provided. He didn’t spend a cent of his own money for doctor and medicine and hospitalization bills. Now there was the prospect of a few thousand dollars coming as compensation. After deducting his lawyer’s fees it would still be something to live on. There was social security, partial retirement pension. It was not bad. He could walk a little now although he still limped and had to move about with care.
When he opened the door, the fat woman said, “Mr. Palma? Alipio Palma?”
“Yes,” he said. “Come in, come on in.” He had not talked to anyone the entire week. His telephone had not rung all that time. The little noises in his ears had somehow kept him company. Radio and television sounds lulled him to sleep.
The thin one was completely out of sight as she stood behind the big one who was doing the talking. “I’m sorry, I should have phoned you first, but we were in a hurry.”
“The house a mess,” Alipio said truthfully. He remembered seeing two women on the porch. There was another one, who looked like Seniang’s sister. Had he been imagining things? Then the thin one materialized, close behind the other, who walked in with the assurance of a social worker, about to do him a favor.
“Sit down,” Alipio said, passing his hand over his face, a mannerism which Seniang hated. Like you have a hangover, she chided him, and you can’t see straight.
There was a TV set in the small living room crowded with an assortment of chairs and tables. There was an aquarium on the mantel piece of a fake fireplace. A lighted bulb inside the tank showed many colored fish swimming about in a haze of fish food. Some of it lay scattered on the edge of the mantelpiece. The carpet beneath it was sodden and dirty. The little fish swimming about in the lighted water seemed to be the only sign of life in the room where everything was old, including, no doubt, the magazines and tabloids scattered just about everywhere.
Alipio led the two women through the dining room, past a huge rectangular table in the center. It was bare except for a vase of plastic flowers as centerpiece.
“Sorry to bother you like this,” the fat one said as she plunked herself down on the nearest chair, which sagged to the floor under her weight. The thin one chose the near end of the sofa that faced the TV set.
“I was just preparing my lunch. I know it’s quite early, but I had nothing else to do,” Alipio said, pushing down with both hands the seat of the cushioned chair near a movable partition, which separated the living room from the dining room. “I’m not too well yet,” he added as he finally made it.
“I hope we’re not really bothering you,” the fat one said. The other had not said a word. She looked pale and sick. Maybe she was hungry or cold.
“How is it outside?” Alipio asked. “I have not been out all day.” Whenever he felt like it, he dragged a chair to the porch and sat there, watching the construction going on across the street and smiling at the people passing by. He stayed on until it felt chilly.
“It’s fine. It’s fine outside. Just like Baguio.”
“You know Baguio? I was born near there.”
“We’re sisters,” the fat one said.
Alipio was thinking, won’t the other one speak at all?
“I’m Mrs. Antonieta Zafra, the wife of Carlito. I believe you know him. He says you’re friends. In Salinas back in the thirties. He used to be a cook at the Marina.”
“Carlito, yes, yes, Carlito Zafra. We bummed together. We come from Ilocos. Where you from?”
“Aklan. My sister and I speak Cebuano.”
“She speak? You don’t speak Iloco.”
“Not much. Carlito and I talk in English. Except when he’s real mad, like when his cock don’t fight or when he lose, then he speaks Iloco. Cuss words. I’ve learned them. Some.”
“Yes. Carlito. He love cockfighting. How’s he?”
“Retired like you. We’re now in Fresno. On a farm. He raises chickens and hogs. I do some sewing in town whenever I can. My sister here is Monica. She’s older than me. Never been married.”
Monica smiled at the old man, her face in anguish, as if near to tears.
“Carlito. He got some fighting cocks, I bet.”
“Not any more. But he talks a lot about cockfighting. But nobody, not even the Pinoys and the Latin Americanos around are interested in it.” Mrs. Zafra appeared pleased at the state of things on the home front.
“I remember. He once promoted a cockfight. Everything was ready, but the roosters wouldn’t fight. Poor Carlito, he did everything to make ’em fight like having them peck at each other’s necks, and so forth. They were so tame. Only thing they didn’t do was embrace.” Alipio laughed, showing a set of perfectly white and even teeth, obviously dentures.
“He hasn’t told me about that; I’ll remind him.”
“Do that. Where’s he? Why isn’t he with you?”
“We didn’t know we’d find you here. While visiting some friends this morning, we learned you live here.” Mrs. Zafra was beaming at him.
“I’ve always lived here, but I got few friends now. So you’re Mrs. Carlito. I
thought he’s dead already. I never hear from him. We’re old now. We’re old already when we got our citizenship papers right after Japanese surrender. So you and him. Good for Carlito.”
“I heard about your accident.”
“After Seniang died. She was not yet sixty, but she had this heart trouble. I took care of her.” Alipio seemed to have forgotten his visitors. He sat there staring at the fish in the aquarium, his ears perked as though waiting for some sound, like the breaking of the surf not far away, or the TV set suddenly turned on.
The sisters looked at each other. Monica was fidgeting, her eyes seemed to say, let’s go, let’s get out of here.
“Did you hear that?” the old man said.
Monica turned to her sister, her eyes wild with fright. Mrs. Zafra leaned forward, leaning with one hand on the sofa where Alipio sat, and asked gently, “Hear what?”
“The waves. They’re just outside, you know. The breakers have a nice sound like at home in the Philippines. We lived near the sea. Across that water is the Philippines, I always tell Seniang, we’re not far from home.”
“But you’re alone. It’s not good to be alone,” Mrs. Zafra said.
“At night I hear better. I can see the Pacific Ocean from my bedroom. It sends me to sleep. I sleep soundly like I got no debts, I can sleep all day, too, but that’s bad. So I walk. I walk much before. I go out there. I let the breakers touch me. It’s nice the touch. Seniang always scold me, she says I’ll be catching cold, but I don’t catch cold, she catch the cold all the time.”
“You must miss her,” Mrs. Zafra said. Monica was staring at the hands on her lap while her sister talked. Her skin was transparent and the veins showed on the back of her hands like trapped eels.
“I take care of Seniang. I work all day and leave her here alone. When I come, she’s smiling. She’s wearing my jacket and my slippers. Like an Igorot. You look funny, I says, why do you wear my things? She chuckles, you keep me warm all day, she says. We have no baby. If we have a baby . . .”
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