Manila Noir

by Jessica Hagedorn

  As he took a step forward, and then another, he felt a slickness on his shoes. He looked down, and dully noted that something dark seemed to have smeared the soles of the sneakers that were practically brand new, bought from Gaisano Mall the day before he left Bacolod. He didn’t understand. His thoughts were slow. Perhaps that was Sheryn’s laugh he had heard, ringing in his head when he reached the urgently whispering men.

  “Epifanio!” said Benedicto, the big man from Murcia. “Did anyone tell you what happened?”

  Sheryn’s laugh was almost ear-splitting. The day was just beginning, but already he detested and feared it.

  “Gonzago here thinks he heard something,” said another man, the one Epifanio knew only as Baby. Epifanio had overheard some of the men gossiping about Baby. It was strange: he had angered his in-laws by slapping his wife, and they had made it impossible for him to remain in his own home, constantly abusing Baby in front of his own children.

  Gonzago was old, almost forty. Everyone knew he roamed the halls in his sleep.

  “If I did hear something,” Gonzago said, “it wouldn’t have helped. I might have heard the man’s soul leaving his body, yes. It sounded like water slipping down a riverbank.” Gonzago gestured, his right arm driving cleanly through the air.

  Only then did Epifanio realize that the floor of the lobby was covered with the same dark substance that stained the soles of his sneakers. It was everywhere. There was even some of it smeared across one of the lobby’s light blue walls. He saw what might have been a handprint.

  Spit was collecting at the back of Epifanio’s mouth. He swallowed, then managed to ask, “Who found him?”

  Sheryn said, “I’m in love with Julio. He will make a better father to my child.” Epifanio closed his eyes. When he opened them again, everyone but Gonzago had left. Gonzago was chuckling to himself. “Eh? The police ask so many questions. But all the wrong ones.”

  Epifanio turned from him and walked out the door.

  “Eh?” Gonzago called after him. “No one is supposed to leave. The police are still taking statements.”

  Epifanio kept going. The street began less than a yard away. Here were spit stains on the buckling asphalt, and horrendous smells. There was almost no sidewalk to speak of. Banana peels, empty soda bottles, scraps of paper all formed a clotted mess in the gutters.

  God is love, God is love, God is love. Epifanio trembled: Sheryn’s pet mynah bird knew only this one sentence. Every time Epifanio called on her, the bird would direct a baleful glance at him and begin its monotonous chant.

  There was a small orchard of cherisa trees behind Sheryn’s house. He remembered going there with her, the taste of the small, tart fruit in her mouth, and then his.

  Epifanio was not physically strong. He was a rather small man, with a slim waist. His forearms were corded from years of having worked as a welder at the sugar plant in Victorias. Six months earlier, he had been let go. The foreman refused to give him a reason.

  To dream! Ah yes, he had dared to dream. The news spread quickly in the town. He slunk along the seafront, drinking bottle after bottle of San Miguel. When he next saw Sheryn, it was on the arm of another man. There was only the smallest hint of a bulge, beneath her waist. Only someone looking for it would have noticed.

  Julio was tall and fair-skinned. He spoke good English. He worked in the business office of L’Fisher Hotel, one of the best hotels in Bacolod.

  Epifanio’s eyes reddened. My child! he thought. Mine! Mine! Mine!

  Was Epifanio sorry about the fate of the smirking man? Naturally, yes. But he was also a little tense. Epifanio had disliked the man; it was this that made the guilt grow. Could his thoughts have somehow assumed a walking shape and descended from his room to the first floor, where the smirking man sat nodding off behind the desk in the small office?

  Was Epifanio interested in the young woman because she reminded him a little of Sheryn? They had the same kind of hair: long and shiny, a treasure of fragrance. Sheryn was a little shorter. She also had a more winning manner, a more inviting smile.

  But the young woman had not exactly been a closed door. This, at least, was the implication of the smirk that had accompanied the dead man’s comment about “morning sickness.”

  But—was he really dead? What if he had merely been wounded, and the ambulance had rescued him in time? What if, even now, he was lying in some hospital, with a drip affixed to one arm?

  Was he the father of the young woman’s baby? Epifanio was surprised at the despair that accompanied this thought.

  To hold a woman, any woman—to know the warmth of a woman’s embrace.

  Epifanio’s parents had loved each other with a purity and single-mindedness that he had tried to emulate. But the ferocity of Sheryn’s desire had unmanned him. They had been classmates in high school but Epifanio never dreamed of courting her. Then, one day in October, right in the middle of the Masskara Festival, she came up to him in the plaza. “Gusto mo ako?” she asked. Her tone was teasing. “O, tilawi!” Just like that.

  During their first time together, she had grabbed him by the root and drawn him close. She had called up his courage and he had done things to her that he had never thought himself capable of. She had pulled him further into her, spreading her thighs wide, luxuriating in his desire. Her lips, Epifanio noticed, swelled with her arousal; her breasts too. He liked to hold one in each hand. They were not large, but they were all he needed.

  When Epifanio and Sheryn encountered each other on the street, they feigned aloofness. Her family was not rich, but they were better off than Epifanio’s; his father eked out a hard living as a fisherman. Epifanio had done many things: he had been a tricycle driver. Also, a waiter. Also, a traffic enforcer. Sheryn had graduated from college, whereas Epifanio had dropped out after two years. She worked as a teller in a bank, and wore nice clothes to work every day. Still, Sheryn wanted him! When they caught each other’s eyes, they smiled surreptitiously, like conspirators.

  Then, disaster: I am carrying your child, she whispered. The future shrank to the width of one hand. Her desire seemed to wither. There was a new kind of hard determination in her face. He talked of marriage; she said, Wait.

  Sheryn’s voice was strong near the bar. A sign said, Deep and Deeper. Epifanio had passed it before, had noticed the women going in and out, he knew what for. The women wore tight clothes that emphasized every curve. They walked languorously, aware that men were watching.

  Epifanio lurked about, throwing quick glances at the door. A tall man with a smooth-shaven head and tattoos running down both forearms stood just inside, where he might easily have been mistaken for a shadow. He uttered a warning to Epifanio, and made a derisive gesture with his hand. Epifanio walked quickly away, his thin shoulders hunched up and his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.

  Epifanio easily found the bar again two nights later. There was some kind of program going on: he listened to the voice of a man reciting lewd jokes into a microphone. The bar seemed full: the laughs were raucous. A young woman kept going in, out, in, out. She was not pretty. She wore a silvery blouse that hugged her breasts and Epifanio appreciated the slimness of her waist. Only after she had gone back and forth several times did it dawn on Epifanio that she was aware of him, that she was perhaps interested in him. She stood on the sidewalk, peering down the street as if looking for someone. He watched her turn, this way and that. She wore gold sandals; her toenails were painted bright red. Because she was taking her time about going back inside, Epifanio had ample opportunity to devour her with his eyes, to imagine himself doing certain things with her. Now he was sure: she wanted him! But he could do nothing, only stand and stare.

  She came out a third time and stood on the sidewalk. Her lips seemed brighter. No one else was on the street, or in the world: there was only the girl, and Epifanio, and his aching need. She turned in a slow semicircle. He knew she was urging him on, trying to arouse him to some form of action. His eyes took what they could.
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  When she had exhausted every possible movement, she turned and walked slowly back to the bar. Her head was held high, but Epifanio could sense her disappointment. He had saved her, or himself, he didn’t know which.

  It was his first time in Manila, but the city had always existed in his head. It was his last remaining opportunity, the one he would run to when everything else had failed, his last card. He didn’t want to be playing that card so soon, but he found the situation with Sheryn unbearable. So, like a gambler, he had played it.

  Epifanio went to see Sheryn one last time before leaving. His eyes were puffy and red. She looked at him and grazed his left cheek with the tips of her fingers. “Silly,” she said softly. “Nothing to cry about. Silly, silly.” Epifanio’s gaze traveled to her stomach, the roundness there. That was when she pulled away, both hands over her belly as if protecting it. “You’d better leave.” When he didn’t move, she said, sharply, “Go!”

  He rose, stiffly.

  The men’s breakfast was provided by the boardinghouse. For lunch and dinner, however, they had to spend their own meager funds. Someone told them that the food stalls near the bus terminals had the cheapest food. These usually served pork barbecue—ten pesos a stick—or “Adidas,” chicken feet. The color of the meat made Epifanio want to retch.

  For the past week, he had forced himself to last as long as possible on the breakfast: two small sausages, one egg, and a small pyramid of rice. By noon, he was faint. By dinnertime, he was angry. But he found a way to endure the hunger.

  There had been no breakfast served that morning, because of the tragedy. The manager of the boardinghouse had paced the lobby, throwing curses right and left. His wife, who was in charge of the kitchen, moaned, Dios mío, Dios mío. One couldn’t have asked about breakfast at such a time. Epifanio wandered the streets, willing himself into exhaustion.

  Eventually, he found himself on the street with the bar. He waited. He felt like sinking down on the pavement, but looked in disgust at the gobs of spit that formed a dense pattern by the gutters. When the woman finally came out, she seemed to look for him. Her eyes found him, and he sensed the invitation and longing. He came forward.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. He spoke very softly, hoarse with fear and desire.

  “Honey,” she said, smiling. “What’s yours?”

  He shook his head and paused. Then he decided that she deserved to know at least this about him: “Epifanio,” he said.

  She kept smiling. She leaned against him. He could feel her small breasts, pressed against his chest. He raised his right arm to circle her waist.

  “You like me?” she whispered.

  He nodded. From his pocket, he pulled out all the money he had. She grabbed the bills eagerly and started to count. Then she said, “You rich? Did you really mean to offer this much?”

  He didn’t even know how much he had in his pocket. When did he get the money? This morning? He saw the eyes of the dead man. He stanched the memory.

  “Yes, I meant to offer that much,” he asserted. He felt manly now. Strong.

  Honey laughed. “You can have me the whole night for this,” she said.

  Epifanio nodded. She drew him inside.

  DARLING, YOU CAN COUNT ON ME

  BY

  ERIC GAMALINDA

  Santa Cruz

  1. FROM THE MANILA TIMES

  PAIR OF GIRL’S LEGS FOUND IN TRASH PILE

  May 30, 1967. A garbage collector found a pair of legs, severed neatly into four parts at the knees and hip joints and wrapped in old newspapers, in a trash pile on Avenida Rizal, Santa Cruz, at 11:25 last night. Last week, a badly decomposed human hand was found in front of a barbershop on Recto Avenue. Is anybody missing a sister, daughter, or niece—about 18 or 20?

  GIRL’S HEADLESS BODY IDENTIFIED

  May 31, 1967. Police investigators last night established the identity of the woman whose headless body was found in a vacant lot on Epifanio de los Santos Avenue yesterday afternoon. The dead woman’s fingerprints matched police files of Lucila Lalu, 29. Detectives said a pair of legs found yesterday in a trash can on Avenida Rizal also belonged to Miss Lalu, owner of the Pagoda Cocktail Lounge and Lucy’s House of Beauty in Santa Cruz. A coroner said the woman had just given birth.

  LUCILA LALU SLAY SUSPECT HELD

  June 1, 1967. Police last night detained the alleged paramour of Lucila Lalu, whose headless body was found Tuesday evening. However, Florante Relos, 19, who admitted being the lover of Miss Lalu, was released after he gave what police thought was an “airtight” alibi—on the night of the murder, he had been drinking with three friends, who corroborated his story. Relos said that Miss Lalu had wanted to break up with him and that he had stopped seeing her two weeks ago.

  COPS TAG LUCILA KILLER!

  June 6, 1967. Manila police have tagged Patrolman Aniano de Vera as a principal suspect in the murder of Lucila Lalu. Police believe Officer de Vera, Miss Lalu’s husband of seven years, had “the strongest motive”—jealousy. De Vera recently discovered that Miss Lalu had been having an affair with Florante Relos, a waiter at her cocktail lounge.

  LUCILA KILLER CONFESSES!

  June 15, 1967. Unburdening himself of the weight of his guilt, Jose Luis Santiano, married and father of five, submitted a handwritten confession to police authorities. Santiano, a boarder on the mezzanine above Lucila Lalu’s beauty parlor in Santa Cruz, said Miss Lalu tried to seduce him in his bedroom at around 11:30 p.m. last May 28, and that he strangled Miss Lalu during a “mental blackout.”

  “I DID NOT KILL HER!”

  June 18, 1967. Jose Luis Santiano last night retracted his previous confession that he killed Lucila Lalu and claimed, instead, that he was an unwilling witness to the murder by three men. These men allegedly instructed him to admit to the murder and claim Miss Lalu tried to seduce him. They also warned him not to tell anybody about the murder. Meanwhile, investigators say the latest piece of evidence against Santiano is a ball-peen hammer found on a ledge of his mezzanine apartment. Is Santiano lying? Was he paid to confess? Did he participate in the crime?

  2. FLORANTE’S VERSION

  First of all, she wouldn’t change the lock on him. That is so beneath her. He tries his key again. It gets stuck in the lock, and he tries to wiggle it free. No use. Aniano must have done it. The man is a pig and a snake. Baboy na, ahas pa. No wonder she hasn’t fucked him in years. The very idea makes him want to puke.

  He looks up. The sky is a churning mass of gray. Bruise-colored is the way she likes to describe it, just before it rains. She said a poet taught her that. From the corner of his eye he can see flickering lights where the alley opens up to Avenida Rizal. The sun has just set. Its last faint light glimmers like tinsel peeling off the sides of jeepneys as they careen through the avenue. Glimmers: maybe if he started talking like a poet she would change her mind. Like tinsel: that must be a good sign. God has given him a sign. If God lets him get to her before she does it, if he can stop her somehow …

  But she couldn’t have changed the lock on him. He tiptoes to look in through the shop window, the bottom half of which is boarded up. He’s not very tall. She once made a remark about that. He was hurt, and she never said it again. He can see part of the shop where he helped her install a red leatherette sofa just a month ago. It was going to be her new reception area, where the ladies of the Pagoda Cocktail Lounge could read the latest gossip magazines while they waited for their turn to get their hair teased or their nails done. Red for good luck, just like the Chinese siopao vendors along the avenue told her. I believe in the signs, he says to himself. Give me a sign, and I will believe.

  He can see her lying on the sofa, her forearm resting over her eyes, her legs stretched across a pool of shiny red. He can see her so clearly: there’s a run in her stocking, revealing a pale slice of skin. He taps on the window. She’s barely breathing. He taps again, softly at first, then louder and more insistently. She must be fast asleep. Odd to do that at this hour, so
early in the evening, when a stray hostess with an emergency—a broken nail, a wealthy date who wants her hair done a certain way—might just pop in, breathless and frantic and needing her help.

  Maybe she already did it. But she wouldn’t get rid of her baby just because she’s seeing another boy. And she wouldn’t desert him for another boy. You are far too pure for that, he finds himself whispering as he taps on the window again. The light of the lamppost across the street hisses, sputters, then goes out. The alley is totally dark now. He looks at his watch. He has spent an entire hour trying to get in. The sky looks like it’s about to fall. It’s too early for rain. Rain doesn’t come till June. Not till next week.

  He looks in again. She has put her arm down, but her eyes are still shut. He taps and taps but she does not move. And then, for some reason, something in him sinks. He feels the weight bearing down on him. He knows the sky is going to break and rain will fall, early and bizarre. Maybe she’s already done it. This cannot be undone. God has given him a sign. God is telling him he has come too late. God wants to get drunk with him. God is saying that forgetting is as easy as a case of beer. I’ll drink a case with You, God, so I’ll have the guts to tell You to go to hell.

  3. ANIANO’S VERSION

  She lies down on the sofa and shuts her eyes. “Look what you’ve done,” she says. “There’s a run in my stocking.”

  “You can barely see it,” he says.

  “You hit me again, Aniano, I swear I’ll walk out on you.”

  “I didn’t hit you. I just pushed you a little.”

  “I can’t go out now.”

  “Just take it off then,” he says. “It’s a birthday party. At a fucking Chinese restaurant. What do you need to wear stockings for?”

  “Nobody goes anywhere without stockings.”

  “Sure, you want to look nice for the birthday boy.”