“At least,” Father said when Angela was born, “I saw my grandchild.”
Now the management of the entire estate was in my hands. Neither Mother nor Corito had any interest in doing it, but they were clever enough not to entrust Camilo with more money than he needed for his peregrinations. Mother’s interests were her garden and her mah-jongg sessions. Although not greedy, Corito turned out to be a perennial source of pain in the coming years; her jealousy was such that it was best for me to stay away from Sta. Mesa. But that did not help much. She also grew quite stout. We had such violent quarrels we often came close to wrestling. We were very careful, however, never to quarrel in front of Angela; in fact, it was my love for Angela that brought me back to Sta. Mesa again and again like some masochist returning for more punishment.
Father’s demise in orgiastic beatitude was to be replicated by Mother, but in a differently pleasurable manner. Her passing was described in detail by Doña Petra, her mah-jongg companion of many years. For several sessions, Mother had had no luck, and, being impetuous, she had increased the bet so much there was now a lot of anxiety at the table. Then, it happened—for once, she was truly lucky and when she ecstatically cried, “Pong!” she slumped forward in victory and death. Like Father, her heart stopped.
Just twenty-four and I now had to manage all our properties. It should have been Corito, she being older and better educated and all that, but she devoted her time to Angela, who was, even at birth, very sickly. I feared she would not survive. Corito almost died, too, when Angela was born. She had to have a hysterectomy and the fact that she could never have another child made her care all the more fastidiously for her only child. Corito’s condition, among other things, bound me to her no matter how much I loathed her afterward.
Nationalist entrepreneur! How I loved to be called that. I emblazoned it in my mind, the best accolade I have received. But a sense of humility—my friends would call it rare and out of character—informs me I should lower my self-esteem a bit. I did not start from the bottom, so to speak. I did not struggle against fearsome odds. From the very start, position, power—they were all mine to use and all I did really was to be clearheaded and logical in reaching for more of the same. For this reason, I am hesitant to narrate my entrepreneurial conquests, if they may be called that. I did not sweat to achieve them and though I pride myself in being here—the summit—it is in the more personal triumphs that I glory, the acquisition of a rare book, or an old Philippine painting or antique, the discovery of an excellent menu and, most sensually satisfying of all, the total and dearly sought acquiescence of a woman.
Forgive me then, dear reader, if I bleat not about my business skills. Bear with me instead as I take you with me into this mysterious and pleasurable domain called woman.
But I am dying. My thoughts, then, should not be acrimonious and bitter. I should be filled with Christian charity, not demanded by religion but by an inner compulsion. I want to be remembered as one not miserly with his affection. This is the inviolate truth. My excesses can be explained by my love for life, maybe my own, and also for those to whom I am devoted.
I am dying, and even with all my resources, I am powerless to stave off death. Is my condition now the supreme irony? Did God will it or some unfathomable fate? To be imprisoned in a useless body, to have the mind alert, capable of memory and cunning but not able to command the body to act—is this punishment? In spite of my iron Catholic upbringing, in my most decrepit condition, now I questioned Him. If He is such a perfect Being, why did He create an imperfect world, why was He miserly when He denied perfection to men? A Jew who converses with God would reply: so man can make his own moral choices. Why must such a choice be made at all?
Father had shown me how important political ties are, not so much because with politics we shape the state but because with politics we preserve and enlarge our power base. I am sure this was also an almost instinctual knowledge he had inherited from my grandfather. He was always close to those who wielded power and he himself belonged to that anointed circle which some Filipino writers, jealous of our discrete and durable privilege, have derisively called the oligarchy.
My own generation had quickly matured, was made cynical even, by the war. But we were not old enough to take over when that war ended. Being entrusted with the care of our properties, Corito and I being the only heirs, I merely continued in the first two years what Father had done, buying up as much land as possible in the expanding suburbs of Manila, particularly in Makati. As Grandfather said when our Sta. Mesa house was being built, the city will surely overflow its present boundaries in an untidy sprawl. One did not have to be prescient to foresee that.
I did better than both. Before I was thirty, I had looked keenly at the economy with a vision sharpened by those days in college, by my contacts with classmates whose parents were achievers. Now I went into banking and insurance, and, with an eye ever to the future, much of it encouraged by my early visits to Japan, I went into shipping. At twenty-six, I was truly a taipan.
At this time the reparations from Japan were pouring in. I was not going to miss my opportunities. My interest in Japan had developed from those conversations with the Japanese officers, particularly with Colonel Masuda. I am sure that he died in Leyte, poor man, for if he were still alive, he would surely have surfaced in Japan. A man with his academic background would be most useful to the Americans.
Now, shipping. I have often wondered why there weren’t more Filipino industrialists who became shipbuilders. I am only too aware of the archipelagic nature of our country, the need for a strong navy and a maritime industry. I know, of course, the basic reasons—the absence of a steel industry, technical people capable of building engines, metallurgists, et cetera. Such efforts can only be initiated by government working hand-in-hand with industry.
I go back to our history, to our past as a seafaring people, to those magnificent galleons that crossed the Pacific in epic voyages, and how we have trained thousands of seamen to man the world’s ships.
It was not on a whim that I went, therefore, into this enterprise. So let me say again that I have contributed what I can.
I started with the interisland routes that have always been profitable. With reparations, I was able to obtain three secondhand but still seaworthy ferries from Japan. I wondered how they could be altered into passenger boats—at the time, there was not enough technology in the Philippines. I looked around at the shipbuilding industry that was then starting in Korea—and there I took the three ferries to be refitted, modernized. It took them a year, and when I brought these ships back to Manila for the southern route—Cebu, Davao, Manila—they turned out to be the grandest ships that ever sailed the Philippine seas.
It was just a matter of time; my shipping department was managed by a young tyro whose father was a former executive of Compaña Maritima, the old prewar shipping line. He was mestizo—you guessed it—and extremely able. When he was ready, we went international, with first four tankers to service the oil needs of the Philippines, then container ships—they were coming into vogue—for the Pacific ports and Japan.
I would gladly have built those ships in the Philippines, but we did not have the facilities. Japan had become too expensive—the Japanese could not compete with the Koreans—so all the new ships were built at the giant shipyard in Koji.
Now they are complaining about how expensive shipping costs are. Manila to Seattle is cheaper than Manila to Davao. But of course! We have banded together—a cartel, our critics would call us. We are merely maximizing profits, taking what the market can bear. What do those bleeding hearts, those weepy do-gooders expect? A free ride?
I did not see Korea during the Korean War, but I saw pictures of that country as it was ravaged by that war. All those mountains that surround Seoul were bare rock then as were those mountains all the way down the peninsula. Not now—they are all caparisoned with trees, no easy achievement in less than two decades.
On my third business trip to S
eoul, to the shipbuilding company’s main office, I met Choonja. It matters not that her family name is Kim, millions of Koreans have that family name, or Lee. She was the secretary of the executive vice president who was personally attending to my requirements. Choonja stood out in that austere conference room where she was taking notes. She reminded me almost instantly of Adela, except that she was very fair, with brownish hair, and her eyes—they were much like Adela’s, dreamy and pensive.
I had brought along a dozen of my people, my accountants, my engineers, including an American consultant. The president of the company attended the first hour of the meeting, but he left soon after. My own presence really was not all that necessary, for my staff knew what to do. We were hammering out the final agreement and the meeting was tiring because we were looking at so many details. Thank God this beautiful executive secretary relieved the tedium. Our eyes often locked, but she would quickly return to her notes. Looking at her, I hurtled back to another time with nostalgia, remorse and then pity, for Adela had surely perished in the battle for Manila.
That first day ended with relief, particularly when the Korean vice president said we would attend a kaesang party that evening. It was the first time I had ever heard about the kaesang. And Miss Kim explained to us that the kaesang is what the geisha is to the Japanese—an official entertainer. Miss Kim made all the arrangements and our host was no other than the company president. From our hotel that evening—the new Chosun—we were taken in limousines to the outskirts of Seoul. It was dark, so I couldn’t see where we were, other than that we seemed to be going up a hill. Then we were before a brightly lighted building, the Blue Cloud Restaurant.
It was autumn, late October, and Korean autumns are chilly but lovely in the daytime when the sky is unblemished and pure. I remember very well that persimmons were already in season, and peonies were in bloom, splotches of lavender and violet in the parks where Choonja took me.
One thing about the Koreans: they do not indulge in obscure euphemisms when they entertain. They said outright that we could bring any of the girls who served us that night back to our hotels.
The food was exotic but hot, the usual kimchi, raw fish, barbecued beef. Eight girls in their dainty Korean dress performed a fan dance, and an athletic but lithe girl, lovely even with just the slightest makeup, danced, all the while beating two drums in tidy precision. The party broke up at ten, early enough so that we could hurry back to the Chosun before curfew, retire early and get ready for the grueling session the following day.
My boys waited for my cue; knowing that they wouldn’t bring any of the girls with them if I didn’t take one, I did bring with me the girl who sat at my side and tried to make me comfortable during the dinner. She spoke some English—she was about twenty or so and was heavily made up. In my suite that night, she washed her makeup off and I was surprised to find her even prettier. I asked why the heavy cosmetics, and she said so she would not be recognized when she went to the Blue Cloud. I asked if she knew how to massage, and she said she did, and that was all she gave me. Exhausted, encroached by tedium, I soon fell asleep. When I awoke in the morning, she was already in ordinary street clothes. I wanted to take her to the dining room for breakfast but she said she would rather go home, that is, if I no longer needed her. She also had school to attend. I had abstained, I am sure, because my thoughts were on Miss Kim. I think she was worried that I wouldn’t give her any tip and was truly grateful when I gave her a fistful of won—she embraced and kissed me noisily.
At the conference room that morning, Miss Kim greeted me with a knowing smile. “I hope,” she said, “you had a wonderful time last night.”
“Thanks to you, yes,” I said, winking at her. She seemed embarrassed, and turned away quickly.
Again, the same tiring procedure. Before we recessed for lunch I told the Korean vice president I would like to go shopping that afternoon and, looking at Miss Kim, I said I hoped she could join me for lunch so that we could proceed from there.
The Korean was bewildered, but he could not refuse me, of that I was sure. After some harried conversation, he said, bowing, “Yes, Miss Kim can go with you.”
As we headed for the elevator, she was grim-faced. But only for a while. Finally, in the lobby, she burst out laughing. “He couldn’t say no to you; I am glad you took me away from that meeting. It is hard work for me, too, and he said it would be difficult to get someone from the staff to do what I was doing. I hope you won’t repeat it.”
I assured her that I certainly would.
Then she asked what I wanted to buy.
“Nothing, really,” I said honestly. “I just want to be with you. To look at you. You are so pretty and you remind me so much of my youth, of a girl I was in love with, who really looked like you. Your eyes, particularly.”
“You did not marry her?”
“I am a bachelor.”
“I know,” she said. It occurred to me that the Koreans are very thorough, that they study the background of the people they deal with.
“She died during the war,” I said simply.
“I am sorry,” she said. “So many tragedies happen in war. My family is in North Korea—I have no word of them. I fled here with my grandfather when I was a child.…”
We went to a cozy restaurant in nearby Myung Dong and had barbecued eel, fragrant rice, raw fish and the inevitable kimchi. She wanted to call for one of the company limousines, but I told her it would be more fun if we went by ourselves and took whatever transport was available. I learned she had gone to Ewha College, which was exclusively for girls, and that was where she took up American literature, primarily so she could master English. She lived in Chongro-ku, a district in the city itself, in a small apartment with her grandfather. She was earning good money, she said, and she was glad she had taken up literature, for not only did she learn English but most of its idioms as well.
We had an argument when she said her favorite American novelist was Faulkner; I said he was difficult, inscrutable, affected, prolix, extremely self-indulgent and confused in his thinking.
She laughed. “You just have no patience,” she said. Then she asked me who my favorite was and I said, “Hemingway.”
It was her turn to lambaste me. “He is simple, too direct, too mannered, too choppy, and his prose is trite.…”
We let it go at that. She decided to take me to Itaewon. “That is where many foreigners go,” she explained. “Particularly the American soldiers. There is a lot of variety there, mosstly goods for export—the foreigners say it is cheaper but, actually, it isn’t—there are places cheaper than Itaewon but these are frequented only by us, and they are not as colorful as Itaewon.”
When we got there, I had already convinced her to stop calling me sir or Mr. Cobello but to call me Charlie instead.
She agreed, but would do so only when there were just the two of us. In the presence of her boss, and my people, she would always be formal.
Itaewon was like a dry-goods supermarket. Both sides of the street were lined with boutiques selling sneakers, jackets, fashion dresses, army surplus and, between these shops, the usual restaurants serving American fare. A lot of foreigners, many of them apparently GIs, were in the shops and on the sidewalk.
In the leather shops, jackets and coats made to order were priced way below what they would cost in America or Europe. We passed a fur shop with soft, shiny mink coats and jackets. Choonja said many foreigners buy Korean mink because it is the cheapest in the world. The Koreans were now raising the animals in farms and were breaking into the world market just like they were doing with their many consumer products.
We walked in. I had bought Corito a sable coat in Stockholm last year, her second, and she scolded me because not only did she not have much opportunity to wear it but it seemed to her a useless expense. My mother’s lessons on frugality again.
I asked Choonja to try one, which she immediately did—a full-length silver mink. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled.
“I can daydream, can’t I?”
I had decided even before she put it on. “It is not a daydream, Choonja. It is yours.”
She grinned. “You must be joking,” she said, taking the coat off and putting it back on the rack.
“No,” I said. “Put it on and walk out of this shop with it. And have your old woolen coat wrapped up.”
She realized then that I was serious, ready to part with a small fortune for a girl I barely knew. But that’s me, impulsive with women, and gallant to a fault.
“No,” she said, angry now. “I won’t permit it.”
I looked at the salesgirl, her face now saddened. She knew Choonja was rejecting my gift. Choonja spoke to her in Korean, but the woman simply smiled and replied in what seemed like words meant to placate her.
“What is she saying?”
Choonja turned to me. “She thinks you are my husband, and how lucky I am to have such a rich husband.”
Then she laughed and I laughed with her. “I cannot accept it, Charlie,” she finally said. “Thank you for the gesture, I know you really want to give it. And I know you can afford to give away a hundred of these. But look at me. How will I explain this to my grandfather? How will I explain it to the people at the office? I don’t earn that much, you know.”
“No problem,” I said. “When I get to your office tomorrow, I will tell your boss I bought you this coat in appreciation of your company.”
More arguments, but she realized that I really wanted to give her the coat. And when she went to the office the next morning, she wore it. And at the meeting, I told everyone it was my way of expressing my thanks for Miss Kim’s company.
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