Morgan obviously loves this travel, tho he has a wife and 4 children at home—told me that the two things he knew best were “soldiering” and—I forget the other, since the first, so obviously the wistful adventurousness of a N.J. banker, impressed me so much more. Then on to Taipeh. Could it be I was going there too! Conscious of being for first time in area near a war area, conscious at same time of how silly it seemed to make something of it, especially when a pleasant typical Amer. elderly matron, wife of some commercial tycoon traveling with us—hair marcelled, and with the token orchid given by some “company” at emplaning—said, awed, as we deplaned—“Well, this is historic, isn’t it!”
We all love to insert ourselves into history. But I am ahead of myself. Formosa, from the air, was as brilliant as Okinawa but in another way—it looks as rich agriculturally as anything I had ever seen—rice paddies the most brilliant green I suppose, but every inch within the circle of hills that encloses and intervenes, cultivated in some way. A flat green jewel this—no wonder China wants it. The surrounding hills are beautiful—the island from the air seems to have fine highways, considerable commercial areas, etc. A Chinese dignitary traveling with us was met by an enthusiastic horde of admirers—Chiang Mun Lee I was told—a doctor—and the usual Oriental popping of flash bulbs on any occasion. They want to be history too. He a nice old man, quite tall, refined face under floppy Panama. I prefer the Ch. physiognomy to the J.
Morgan left at Taipeh. Flight uneventful, dark. Tried not to have too much Scotch and champagne, but cd do better if had yogurt and raw carrots to substitute. Solemn thoughts, buoyed by liquor, of how long it will be, probably, before I see a raw carrot again. Wonder idly if C. realizes the awful responsibility of having separated me from all such amenities. No doubt. And possibly by now realizing some of that from which he has separated himself.
Is he by now hunting Tabriz for a home for us, having a hard time, wondering if Hortense will approve, can take this … or that. I must write to reassure him. To tell him that his company is well worth. Anyway must not play game of “wonder what he is doing now.” Have done a minimum of that. Too sterile. Yet moments jump, when it’s sharply sad not to be sharing. Then I do play it. Hope he is well, and no longer plagued by stomach, or possible woes of settling. Drive off concern, by cynically imagining possibility that while I so melt, he is at very moment with nice Curt—nose pressed hotly on some tumescent Persian navel. Very unfair that Oriental women shd be so much more attractive to Western eyes than most Oriental men. Or that those of the latter who appeal to me are the Indians and the Chinese—neither of whom I am likely to meet in numbers—altho many Chinese here. Stop the game.
Where was I? Ah, I arrive Manila. And this time they know me—or think they do. A real V.I.P. arrival, flash bulbs popping for me, reporters. Nice, very nice Embassy Cultural Officer Bill Dunne. Fresh from Laos—in the cab, free of all reporters and representatives except Alfredo (Fred) Morales, Pres. of the P.E.N. and head of Fulbright business here, discover that Dunne knows my old and first boyfriend, Herbert Stone, who was in Laos with him. Says H. is now in Wash, with Voice of America or S.D.—still somewhat a recluse—brought a fantastic library to Laos, also records, tapes, etc., also a fantastic bundle of experiences. Still single, tho hard to believe still for love of me.
In hotel, the three of us talk—I still wound up, unload far too much of my bag of tricks to Morales who is concerned about what I shall say Sat. morning to first group I meet—Eng. faculty of U. of P. Trot out most of ideas on literature that I find myself to have gathered from psyche during tour—and that shd be saved for morning. Getting thrifty on ideas as well as meals.
Anyway, ego gratefully expands at welcome—reporters trotting at elbow, everybody saying “we have been waiting for you—your heestory has been in all newspapers,” etc. Hotel staff very admiring, next morning sends in a dozen roses to rm—Bill says to his knowledge they have never done this to visitors he’s squired before. Hotel has swimming pool in back. In morning wd like to swim, but no suit—anyway Dunne and Morales come at 9:00.
Drive to U. of P. in embassy car—M. very explicatory on what we see. Many new buildings to replace bombings—Manila and Warsaw the worst sufferers of W.W. Two. Suspect however that they have always had a kind of tattered mishmash here—Spanish patio elegance whose concrete paint quickly peels, much Western-style building by those who do not understand it, side by side with incredible, really incredible slum. A cold country’s slums can be more concealed; these, open to the weather, tell all.
At University, meet head of Eng. Faculty, whose name I never catch. Difficulty is that, whereas in J., since I do not know their language, I can ask name to be repeated, here, since their language is English, and they have an excellent command of it, it is insulting to ask. But their voices are soft, accents sometimes severe—as with Ben Santos—tho not always. Anyway was given a long introduction—lots of Iowa students on faculty, will have a group meeting with them later in week. Among them one, DeMetillo—poet, critic, etc., who was at Iowa. When I ask who was there when he was, he says (knowingly?—via Santos?) “I was there when Curt was.”
I did well. I am becoming remarkably glib. Still, I remind myself, I merely have a few basic convictions, some basic prejudices—and happen to be able to manipulate them fairly gracefully, but no shame to it, since it is au fond simple, and WHAT I BELIEVE. However this constant glibness is wearing; the familiar academic fatigue, in which one’s own ideas, daily presented begin to seem tawdry, specious, superficial, unending obvious. And, as always, a false position to go on talking abt writing when one is not writing. Tomorrow talk to the P.E.N. group. Suspect I shall be meeting the same group of people everywhere.
In afternoon went wandering and got lost. Streets look built on square—ain’t. Discover am back of Dewey Boulevard, facing Manila Bay. Forgot to say that Morales, after lecture, took me and Dunne to tropical soda parlor. No other word for it. Same air of cheap sweetish color and shabbiness abt everything. Exaggerated or “real” counterpart of what any walker thru Sp. districts in N.Y. knows well. Had a dreadful concoction which is known in Tagalog as “mara puno hala,” coconut “with everything.” Stylistically correct, that phrase. Begins with shaved ice, on top of this a ball of ice cream—Morales substituted for my safe “vanilla” flavor a more adventurous one made from a coconut indigenous here, in which, unlike those we’re used to, the milk fills the fruit, is not confined to just inside the hard shell. Shaved ice filled with the milk. Whole thing topped with slices of custard—yes, slices—with a faint aroma of mace. Under ice various things discovered, retrieved, swallowed. Something shaped like long oval grapes, jelly consistency, rather like a chewy honey cough lozenge I used to have as a child—these palm nuts, I thought I understood. Also something looked like raisin, wasn’t. Chips of coconut. All vaguely sweet—too vaguely.
Upshot—in the afternoon walk—wandered into a Phil, version of supermarket, bought coffee and limes, and paid one DOLLAR for a box of Ry-Krisp. RESOLVE. Lost my way, in quite a sweat when returned. Climate wd be unbearable for constant consumption if thought of cooled room were not safely in mind. Anyway only me and mad dogs, Englishmen go out in noonday sun. Not the hot season here, I’m told. Really not too bad for short intervals—merely the constant problem of clothing getting really wet. One needs a fulltime laundry and endless cycle of cottons. Western men here wear the embroidered shirt (barong) outside the trousers—Philos conversely often affect the hotter Am. shirt, just as some, I am told, will carry Amer. cigs for show, at a party.
Came in for siesta and did. Smiling the girl fell dead.
Bill called for me at 5—took me around corner to his very handsome flat, where he was throwing a party for me. Guests USIS and P. intellectuals—no, mostly newspaper people. Met Mrs. Nakpil and husband. Tops, both. She, not the shriveled Ph. type woman who is so unattractive, but the more beautiful heavy-featured, dark—coffee-au-lait—something Malay in the features? Wore adroit pleated whit
e chiffon gown I coveted—also envied long Manchu fingernails coated silver-white. Husband handsome, though didn’t covet—architect shortly going to states—I chatted Mies Van der Rohe, Eero Saarinen, talk very glib still. Told him about Des Moines museum. Also there: N. V. M. Gonzalez, who had been at lecture—teaches at U.P.—and is, as I already knew the “man of letters” preeminent—although Reinhardt says he’s not as good as Solianco and Joaquin. Neither of the latter there. Solianco very hard to meet especially.
Guests at party included Morli Dharem—critic for Times. Rather mincing, slightly self-important. Used to write short stories. Almost no Male in the Philippines, except for Americans, has not used to write short stories. Mrs. Nakpil, on my other side, compliments him across me—“Morli, you are so versatile, you do everything—plays. … etc. etc. If she is vitriolic, she conceals well. Morli replies with a mincy-wince—“Ah no, I fear I spread myself too thin.”
Also talk to Frankie Jose, editor Sunday Times Mag. and Rosalinda Orosa, who very shyly asks me how to begin to write—should she join a class like Ed Fuller’s, as I once did. Have already discovered that everybody knows everything ever printed about my life and hard times in U.S. papers—including old interview with Breit in Times, Sat. Review, when collection came out—biographical notes from old O. Henry’s. Apparently papers ran this all several days ago, thereby producing some confusion. Clips being old, I am represented as having children some 8 yrs younger than they are, etc. Orosa said one article said I write and devote a certain time to career, “squander the rest of time on children.” We discussed “squander.”
Virginia Moreno—lecturer at U.P., this one tiny-type, excessively matchstick of bone, very shy and nice despite being a “litry personality.” Easy to be one here, I think. Mrs. N. said Miss M. had written a “brilliant play.” From converse find, from Miss M., that this was in 1951—“Since then I have written a second, but opinion is divided into 2 camps as to which is better.” Curious combo of surface shyness—no putting oneself forth à la Calisher, conversationally—and a sense of importance, underwritten by belonging to “the group”—in fact she’s a mover and doer in all of them—that I would hesitate to own. Everybody calls her Virgie. A virgin perhaps too—wore engagement diamond. Had been at Bread Loaf. We talked of Frost. All these people have been to States on one grant after another—Amer. Leader Grants, etc., Rockefeller, Asia Foundation. The Morales there of course—she looks nice. N. V. M. Gonzalez the omnipresent. Someone, can’t remember who, says he’s heavy for symbolism—then he wdn’t have fancied what I said that morning, about “new criticism.”
Americans included Lewis Mattisons—they new here also. She attractive, grew up in Haiti. He very man of distinction handsome, but very quiet, and I think, lack of confidence underneath. The USIS gets a lot of former newspapermen, former radio and TV, former … former. So, they are not quite usual S.D. types, and sometimes one wonders, as here, as to why the “former.” But being less routine they are often—well, less routine. Mrs. M. did not know Ann Kennedy or Sheelagh, though had heard of—especially S.’s rep and marriage to a Haitian, no doubt. Wasn’t stiff at all abt it—as S. had said so many American old-hands in Haiti were—but said these marriages were an old story—and usually didn’t Work. (Had read reviews of S.’s novel, tho not the book, and said it seemed to be the “old story.”) Very nice gal; liked her. Something wistful, and Fitzgeraldish about her somewhere. They invited me to go on with them to the “Barrio” fiesta to be given that night at the Manila Press Club. The “barrio” is the name of the P. village which (today’s Sun. Times. [Fil.] in an article on the lack of literacy, says) constitutes 80% of the pop.
The U.P. club was decorated as much as possible in that style—straw booths, and stage-bamboo lattices on the ceiling, both hung with fruits and an occasional iron or stoneware pot. Beautiful vegetables—a squash like a long gourd that someone ought to paint or eat immediately, etc. Crowd mixed, Fil., Amer., Chinese mostly (Chinese pop is of course large, tho not as large as in other non-Chinese countries of S.E. Asia). There was to be a voting for a popularity-beauty queen; we were campaigned loudly, mostly by Amer., the minute we walked in the door. One candidate from each race, campaign manager always another race than candidate. Bar was full, there was to be dinner, native dances. On paper it sounds like the dullest possible comb. of the Iowa-Beauty-Queen or whatever-dance C. and I attended, plus the usual Saturday-night do of that country club in a dozen different colonies where “natives” are now admitted.
Nothing cd have been more wrong. The main impetus was supplied by the Filipinos themselves, their gaiety and liveliness. The dress of the women is quite lovely, after the eye gets used to the idea—variety of color, rather than blending or contrasting. The “mestiza” dress typically has a sleeve shaped like a flat, large pancake, with the thin edge up-ended over the wearer’s shoulder, sleeve often transparent tulle, with a border, sometimes sequined—whatever the wearer’s fancy has indicated. Beyond that it is fitted, sheath, tho it may have harem skirt, or other modernities or conventions. One woman was wearing a long one all in black with gold embroidered figures at set intervals—this was called something else—“terman”—something like. The queen who won was Chinese—very beautiful. But other things count in the voting—(last yr’s was C. also)—father an influential C. newspaperman, commonly called “Jimmy Go.”
The dances were charming, ranging from sedate, Spanish-style minuet—our women, except for one or two were terrible—Filapenas and Chinese far more graceful. Two professionals, man and woman, then did a fandango, a wonderful dance where the lady carries first one; then two, and finally three lighted candles in glasses (these like the Jewish jahrzeit memorial lights) while dancing—one on her head. Very lovely—lights in room turned out of course. One group dances with castanets. Last dance, the tini-kling, is done by two people in an intricate stepping in-and-out between two long bamboo poles clapped and parted in set rhythm, on blocks on floor, by two players. Broken ankles if you miss.
During the performance, we sat on the floor on newspaper, many of us, because the seats at sides, constructed of long light logs on blocks, collapsed twice, dumping twenty or so elegant beauties on the floor. And once a large squash fell. Nobody hurt, everybody gay. Somewhat like a square-dance atmosphere—or the one suburban Americans try for—if one could substitute for our fake farm-dirndls very polished dress on women, tiny, very elegant shoes, the heaviest of perfumes—with my usual luck I sat next to something that made Tabu an innocent floral essence—and a gaiety we cannot counterpart. Ladies passed us handfuls of a wonderful greenish-yellow flower, long, curled leaves rather than petals, and a heady smell I liked—the ilang-ilang. I held on to it for a long time. Handfuls of pennies were passed for us to throw, as a token of appreciation to dancers—not the equiv. of a catcall.
Before this we had dined on a somewhat French (head of kitchen is a Mme. Dupont) version of local foods; suckling pig, a fish mousse rather Swedish, Spanish rice tomato-style paella, with tiny whole clams with shell, embedded in it. Chinese rice balls—dead-white dough—ignored by all old hands but I had to taste, and then ignored also. Huge platter of cold fish beautifully boiled, trimmed with the usual fancies. Large shrimp, or perhaps they were a kind of crayfish, also in shells. Very nice. I was squired by Mr. Mattison and a heavy genial gent named Tull—Press attaché I think—as American as a dentist on a spree—whooping and cat-calling, and a brush moustache. Not unpleasant, and not stupid. Still. … Very tiny wife, rather typical embassy, living better than she ever wd at home, servants, etc., and getting rather “colonial.” Sample, when talking of her new boycook “I don’t care what he gives me for lunch, my tastes are simple—I just don’t like to walk in at 12:30 and be asked what I want for lunch!” At home she wd fix herself a sandwich, and no such airs. But generally it was very pleasant, sorry not to get to know Mrs. Mattison better. So home—hotel is all of a block from U.P., but everybody travels even a block in cars.
Today
, Sunday, I have loafed, written this, and am just back from the Chinese restaurant. Nothing until 7, when I meet the P.E.N. club at the U.P. club. Up since 6:30 however—cannot seem to sleep late, and it is now 5. Shall siesta. Later perhaps write about the awful slum just in back of the hotel. A bombed building or just the foundation of, in which people are living, hanging clothes—roof made of odd bits of rusted iron, tin, whatever, insides and outside curb strewn with filth—it is hard to know where the “building” begins and the refuse piles end. Yet people do seem to live here, opposite an elegant, whitewashed very modern Riviera-style apartment house—opposite several, as a matter of fact. One end of the bombed-out place has walls made of the wooden boxes whiskey comes in, some distillers name still on them, all neatly stacked to fill in the interstices between whatever girders, etc., are left. I have also been reading Six Filipino Poets—a small book. Full of their own sensibility, very romantic. Shall I ask them, tonight, about this back alley where the clothes are washed and laid on the curb to sun, on filth? Wondered, as I passed it, how they manage for toilet facilities, etc. Will ask. Lighter note for the day—large, very clear sign in the window door of the beauty shop in the hotel “WE ACCEPT BODY MASSAGE.” I suppose they mean provide? Or maybe not.
And here it is Wednesday, the first of October. So many things one cannot put down, and hopefully may remember—the corner sign large as life (only two Sundays ago was ?) not far from the hotel in Fukuoka, saying NUDE PHOTOGRAPHS … the one on a bookshop not far from here, elegantly gilt, saying BROWSE IN. Philippines have had us and our language for 50 years, and it is required in schools; however, they develop their own version—in another 50 or less they may have a version of English as subtly different as Amer. is from British.
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