Efrem tucks in his elbows and crawls to the edge of the warm tar roof. He lines up his custom Tingin, the barrel just coming out over the torn green awning of the butcher’s shop. It’s just like so many mornings of his youth, lying among fallen trees, the Holy Man whispering in his ear, aiming at unwary soldiers wearing the same uniform he’d one day look taller in.
The busy market below is a dense collection of open-air stalls in a wide courtyard, surrounded on all sides by an arcade of permanent shops. The butcher’s is on the south end of the arcade and from his vantage on the roof Efrem can take clean shots at everything. He lays still, pupils dilating to accommodate the sea of details. Women spread tarps to shade their vegetables and sell grain from open burlap sacks. They stack boxes of sugary cereal like bricks and swat children away from buckets of hard and soft candy. Music pours from portable radios and clusters of men read newspapers and roll cigarettes. A single voice emerges above the scattered rhythms, mottled with static—a recorded call to prayer. People roll out mats and bring their foreheads to the earth. Others, rosaries dangling under their loose cotton shirts, stay standing.
Reynato paces back and forth near the north end of the courtyard holding a hard briefcase filled with a few big bills and a whole lot of magazine clippings. The dealers are nowhere to be seen and his impatience is no act. Lorenzo wanders between stalls at the east end of the market. He’s supposed to be keeping an eye out for trouble but has become distracted at a fruit stand, haggling with an ancient woman over a big stinking durian. They reach a price and he counts out coins, producing them one at a time from his deaf ear. Racha is at a shop window in the northwest corner of the arcade, pretending to browse a collection of pirated DVDs. A big black mangy dog pads back and forth, circling Reynato a few times before turning to look up at Efrem’s hiding place. It moves so natural that he wonders if Elvis isn’t really a dog pretending to be human instead of the other way around.
They arrive. The bald dealers look like tourists in their lycra pants and Hawaiian shirts, and each pulls a little suitcase packed with shabu. They find Reynato right away and keep their distance as they speak. They eye his briefcase, talking to each other more than to him. Reynato reaches out to take one of the shabu-filled suitcases but they hold tight, pushing his hand away. Efrem scans the rest of the market. Lorenzo munches his durian, dropping chunks of spiky rind into the dirt and watching from a safe distance. Racha is alert as well, already fingering the cherry stock of the snubnosed revolver in his pocket. The mangy dog sits behind the dealers, sniffing their cases and pant legs. They don’t seem to notice.
Something isn’t right. Just behind Reynato is a fresh fish stall attended to by three young fishmen. Their table is covered with fat tanigue and spotted lapu lapu that shine on a thin bed of melting ice. The fishmen clutch slim fillet knives, but as Efrem watches he realizes that they aren’t scraping off scales or chopping away fins or really doing anything. When a woman comes to buy a fish they hand it to her clumsily, gripping the slippery head without hooking fingers into gills. They don’t look at Reynato but they don’t look anywhere else either. Their expressions are blank, their attention forcedly unspecific. Efrem flips open his phone and dials Racha.
“Go to the stall behind Reynato and buy a fish,” he says.
“You’re hungry?”
“The vendors aren’t vendors.”
“You’ll pay me back?”
Efrem hangs up and sights his Tingin. Racha moves quickly, both hands in his pockets. Lorenzo sees him, drops his durian and heads in the same direction. Racha arrives at the fish stall and gestures with his nose and chin to what he wants. The young fishmen don’t move, shocked like actors who’ve forgotten their lines. They turn and see Lorenzo closing in from the other direction. Efrem takes a breath and lets it out slow to keep his muzzle steady.
The fishmen move first. One stands and sinks his fillet knife up to the hilt into Racha’s chest. Racha steps back like a drunk, gawking at the handle sprouting from his ribs. Then he takes the snubnosed revolver from his pocket and makes a mess of the north slope of first fishman’s face. Second fishman pulls a pistol from a gapemouth grouper and aims it at Reynato. Efrem puts a hole in the back of his head big enough to hide things in. The sight of dead friends makes third fishman panic. He recovers the scale-speckled pistol from where it fell and turns on Lorenzo, who approaches jauntily. Third fishman fires. There is no bang. A festive flag on a miniature pole sprouts from the barrel; a red Ka-Pow! on spotless canary yellow. Third fishman stares at the gun, confused and betrayed and somehow a little delighted. He tosses the toy and stabs at Lorenzo’s chest with his fillet knife. The blade bends, floppy as gag-shop rubber. He doesn’t even put up a fight when Lorenzo relieves him of the limp knife. Lorenzo flicks his wrist and the blade straightens. He sheaths it between third fishman’s collarbone and top rib. He takes it out and puts it in again. He takes it out and puts it in again. He takes it out. Third fishman lowers himself to his knees, gulping air. Lorenzo puts it in again. Third fishman dies.
The bald dealers, who until this moment have been doppelgangers, have opposite reactions. One drops his suitcase and springs for the nearest exit while the other stays, fumbling with a gun in his too-tight lycra pants. Efrem is about to put one through the fumbler’s mouth when Reynato clocks him with his clipping-filled briefcase. Efrem pivots, hoping to hobble the fleeing dealer, but sees he’s already been tripped up at the heels by the black dog, jaws closing on his chubby neck. The crowd has been screaming since Racha’s first shot, taking cover under nearby stalls and inside arcade shops, but Efrem only hears them now.
He hurries down the ladder at the back of the butcher shop, his smoking Tingin still in hand. He rushes to Reynato who, blood-freckled, is trying to calm the hysterical crowd by holding his badge up in the air. “I could kiss you,” Reynato says. “Would you like that?”
Efrem doesn’t answer, and Reynato plants one on his cheek. He looks down at the unconscious dealer and grins wide. “I’d hoped for more arrests,” he says, “but your philosophy suits me fine. Better safe than sorry, especially when it’s dear me on the line.” He turns to Elvis, who’s an upright man again and rubbing blood off his chin. “That’s disgusting,” he says. Elvis gives a little shrug, and Reynato hands him a plastic zip-tie. “Get that on the live one before he wakes up.”
Racha crawls toward them, reaching for Reynato’s feet.
“Are you going to be a baby,” Reynato asks, “or can you walk to the hospital?”
Racha stands. He falls.
“Baby it is. Help him up, Lorenzo. And find us a taxi.”
Elvis and Lorenzo set about their tasks. Efrem, still light-headed from the affection Reynato’s shown him, asks how he can help. “You just keep being super,” Reynato says, taking his cigar out of his pocket and planting it back between his teeth. He throws his arm around Efrem’s shoulder and keeps it there. Sunshine pours down on them, and up in the baby-blue sky they can see a crescent moon. It looks pale, like it always does in the daytime.
Chapter 12
AFTER BILIBID
“Good evening, ma’am,” Amartina said as Monique came inside and dropped her purse by the door. A whole year now and still no Tagalog.
“Magandang gabi.” Monique stood on one leg to pull off her pumps. She smelled pork in the oven. Fluorescent light spilled out the kitchen into the dark, empty den. A kettle whistled and oil hissed in a saucepan. “I said no need for dinner tonight. I’m not eating.”
“It’s no problem, ma’am,” Amartina said, already returning to the kitchen.
Monique followed her and sat at the breakfast table. Even with Joe and the kids gone a week, Amartina still prepared enough for four. She poured green tea into a coffee mug emblazoned with a bearcat—mascot for Shawn and Leila’s new school—and set it, along with a bowl of sugar, on the table. Monique sipped. It had been a long, tough day. Actually, more like a long, tough week—no day stood out as most or least aggravating. It was as
though all the crazies, the trusty regulars, had received the memo that Chuck would be out of the country, gotten together and decided to run amok. Monique went on no fewer than four prison visits a day, fishing lambanog-stinking retirees out of various barangay drunk tanks, telephoning strangers in the States to let them know that some unheard-from relative was being held for disorderly conduct, taking meetings with weepy young men in ties who were charged with bribing government officials because they hadn’t bribed the right ones. She’d never been so happy to have a weekend. Especially this weekend. She had plans.
“So,” Monique looked up from her tea, trying not to appear too eager, “you’re still going home tonight?” Amartina usually left the city on Saturday mornings to spend a day and a night with her family in Cavite, but Monique was trying to get her to take full weekends while Joseph and the kids were away.
“You do not need me?” she spoke into a pot of boiled potatoes, mashing them with one hand and drizzling in whole milk with the other.
“I don’t. You can go. You should.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her wrist tipped a little too far and an extra cup or so of milk tumbled into the potatoes. She frowned and turned the gas burner on to simmer them down and thicken them up.
“Is that yes-yes or yes-no? Because I really don’t need you.”
Amartina looked up from her pot and said yes ma’am again.
Out in the den the telephone rang, which got Shawn’s gecko chirping and Leila’s lovebird hollering. Monique looked at her watch and figured that Joseph must have just finished his morning run. He’d been cold before leaving—downright nasty when she brought him and the kids to the airport. But since then his fury was annotated with remorse. She found his apologies difficult to listen to. After all, she’d let him go without a fight and was using these five weeks to enjoy her affair for what it was. Five weeks should be enough to get it out of her system for good.
Monique let the phone ring. The gecko and lovebird went on for a few minutes after it stopped.
“Dinner’s ready, ma’am.” Amartina turned from the stove, drying her hands on a rag. “You would like to eat now?”
“No, thank you. Just leave it and I’ll help myself later.” Monique noticed Amartina was staring at her. “It’s late. If you go soon you can still catch the cheap bus.”
“So sorry, ma’am, but you have something …” Amartina reached out and then stopped herself. “Better you take off your jacket, ma’am.”
Monique traced Amartina’s gaze to the shoulderpad of her double-breasted cobalt jacket. There was something there. Bird shit? No. A glob of translucent phlegm, just inches from her neck and collarbone. It was dry, frozen mid-drip as it had oozed down her top lapel. It must have been there for a while. Monique’s muscles tightened as she stood and pulled the jacket off. Her arms were so rigid she half expected to tear the rayon fabric. Amartina helped, coming around behind her, snatching the jacket away.
“I’ll wash it now, ma’am.” She disappeared though the narrow door to her bedroom, which was also the laundry room.
Monique felt nausea trickle up from her stomach. “No,” she called after. “Thank you. No. Just leave it soaking and I’ll deal with it tomorrow.” She followed Amartina to the laundry/bedroom. “You should be with your family.”
“It’s no trouble ma’am.” She’d already filled a plastic basin with water and suds. She dropped the jacket in the basin.
“Yes it is.” Monique took the basin from Amartina and carried it out through the kitchen, past the den, into the master bedroom. “I can clean this,” she called back. “You should go home. Go home, please. I’ll see you on Sunday night.”
SHE WASN’T SURE exactly when it happened, but she could guess. She’d ended her day in a holding room at Bilibid; always the worst prison to visit. An American, not two full days into his visa, had been accused of rape. His name was Doug and he looked at her the way a kid who’s screwed-up looks at his mother. He explained that it was a misunderstanding. The girl was his fiancée. Her father had walked in on them having sex and she’d just started screaming. Monique asked Doug if the police or guards had mistreated him and wrote down most of his long answer. She handed over a laminated list of local attorneys and offered to contact his family if he signed a release form. He declined, which was fine with her. She had plenty to do already.
She didn’t think it was Doug’s phlegm, but plenty other new inmates had hooted and howled when they saw her, many of them red-eyed, still rolling on shabu. A boy with an old man’s face came right up against the bars and grabbed at her. Another gurgled “I love you” in English while sitting on the toilet, tugging himself, never mind men napping on adjacent bunks. Monique imagined him flicking a palm-full of semen as she passed. She imagined the boy sucking mucus threads out of his sinuses. She imagined whatever-it-was dripping down her jacket as she rode home. Crusting over. She carted the basin into the master bath, hung her open mouth over the sink and was almost sick.
She laid towels all around the edge of the basin so soapy water wouldn’t get on the floor. She rolled up her blouse sleeves, got on her knees and held her jacket down below the surface as though drowning it. Her fingers grazed the phlegm, now loose and slick. She stood, unbuttoned her blouse and added it to the basin. She added her patent belt, her narrow slacks and seamless camisole. Naked, she returned to the entryway and grabbed the purse she’d brought to work that day. She emptied the contents out on her bed before dropping it into the basin as well. She got in the shower. She left the lights off and curtain open. She soaped, rinsed and soaped again. When she was done she stood there, dripping dry.
The phone rang again and the animals sang accompaniment. Monique walked into the den, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind. Caller ID said it was him, but she would have picked up even if it was Joseph. Or the ambassador with some last-minute tasking. Or a wrong number.
“Hey.” His voice was coarse, soft, and so familiar. “What are you wearing?”
“Now is not the time.”
He normally didn’t pick up on tone, but that night he got the picture. “Are you all right? Would you rather skip tonight?”
“No.” She paced with the cordless, stepping on her own wet prints. “I haven’t seen you in forever. And I got the maid to go home early. I thought when we’re done, we could come back here.”
“That sounds great … but only if you want. We’ll do whatever you want.”
“We’ll come back here, then,” she said. She hung up and changed into a burgundy gown that she hadn’t worn since the Marine Ball and hastily blow-dried her hair—at the beginning of the week she’d actually thought she’d have time and energy enough to get it done at the Peninsula. She fed crickets to the gecko and grapes to the lovebird. She sat in the den and waited.
He was only a little late, a pleasant surprise. She didn’t even answer his buzz at the intercom, she just rushed out to the elevator. Avoiding the lobby with its helpful, perky staff, she turned down the concrete loading ramp to the side exit—the same one she took on weekday mornings to board the armored embassy shuttle. Reynato waited in the gloom outside, one hand on the roof of his beat-up old Honda, another deep in his pants pocket. He wore a summer suit without a tie and had some kind of product combed into his gray-black hair. The air-conditioning in his sedan had been busted for months, and his forehead and cheeks glistened with sweat.
“My love.” He kissed her neck, her jaw line, her ear. “My love.”
She slid her hands under his suit jacket, along the damp fabric of his button-down shirt. He smelled sweet, and good. He felt soft, and good. She could already feel herself relaxing. “You don’t love me.”
“I know,” Reynato toyed with a lock of her still-damp hair. “But I like you plenty. And I feel like I could love you. With time.” He pat-slapped her behind. “I missed the hell out of you.”
“I missed you, too.” She negotiated her way around the sedan, glancing nervously at the tower of lit and unlit win
dows above. “How’s your friend?”
“My who, now?” He got inside and leaned over to open the front passenger door for her—the outside handle stuck.
“Your friend.” She got in and buckled up. “The one in the hospital in Davao.”
“Oh him! He’s fine. Misdiagnosed. No problem at all.” Reynato smiled and had a brief fistfight with the gearshift. “In fact, there are no problems anywhere right now. It’s rare. Like an eclipse.” He got the sedan into second, pulled out of the parking lot and turned down McKinley Road with a jolt.
They were headed to ballroom night at the Shangri-La. It was sure to be packed with expats and local bureaucrats, likely a few people they each knew, but it was also the only public place they could be seen together without arousing suspicion. After all, they each had their own reasons to go. And it was natural to bump into people at Shangri-La functions. That’s how they’d first met—at a cocktail hour on the mezzanine, hosted jointly by the legal attaché and the director of the National Bureau of Investigation. The first impression hadn’t been great. Reynato watched Monique from across the room, sucking an unlit cigar that waiters kept trying to take from him. It got obvious. Joseph sulked. Jeff offered to go over and say something. She said no and stared right back at the pudgy, graying stranger. Over the course of the night she watched him drain enough tumblers to put a fat man in the hospital, but by last call he could still walk a straight line. He came right up to her and leaned in, showing off clean metal braces that made his mouth—just his mouth—look young. “Describe yourself,” he said.
“Do what?”
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