Boy Luneta

Boy Luneta

I stepped out of my Manila hotel in the dark and crossed Roxas Boulevard to take a walk alongside the bay, repeating a habit I formed some 40 years ago when I was young and green, full of dare and curiosity. I remember how I took a jeepney ride or walked miles so I could visit the Bay as often as I could then. It was like home to me. It was a pleasant home - I recall standing on the seawall, with nothing in front of me but the breeze and occasional moisture splashing from the waves of the Pacific. The habit disappeared with time, the way time took away my libido and youth and beauty. I stayed abroad for more than 3 decades, killing that habit. But today I returned to see if there was still the sparkle, if Manila Bay could trigger the old memories. I miss the coconut trees, the big rocks lining the wall. In the old days, the bay welcomed everyone through the night: lovers and schemers and the homeless and young dreamers, rich and poor, old men. We fortified the vulnerable Manila as we stood guard in the dark watching and waiting. From afar a ship with bright lights rolled by.

When the moon was full, forty years ago, I conjured up events and scenarios and stories, oh I was fond of stories that I witnessed and heard and read about. I wrote them all piece by piece, on notepads that have now collected dust in my storage. Good thing I converted them to digital decades back and now I can summon them as I approach the twilight of my years. I carry no illusions about my writing as I have no formal training. My language is definitely lacking in impeccable grammar and extensive vocabulary. I won’t worry much about this, I don’t think my intended readers prefer to read English anyway, if they even want to read anything at all. How can writing like this compete with the allure of digital content creations? Nowadays one would rather spend time checking out Facebook, Tik tok, reels, you tube for their quick and simple formats of sharing everything from ideas to philosophy to experiences to stories to entertainment in just a few seconds. Visually in an increasingly visual society! Compare that to this long-winding verbiage, really, it is a no brainer.

Yet I keep posting my long ago stories for whatever reason that I can’t fathom. I always wanted to be a writer as a young man but life’s demands required me to take a different route. There was no money in writing during my youth, especially in the Philippines where people could be limited in their scope of interest. Even today, what takes most attention are politics and scandals. The venerable gods come from show business. I even observed the openness of the society on things kept closeted during my time. It is both progressive and regressive I think. Now we have the LGBTs in the limelight, they command hefty prices for their talents, collect millions of followers on social networks and admirers to the chagrin of the close-minded and religious zealots. Relationships become a part of the daily menu, people stepping over the boundaries of what used to be private and polite to open and aggressive. Think of Trump and other conspiracy-theory driven personalities. I am glad I took the route of healthcare as my profession. It paid well and consistently as opposed to a possible writer’s job. That was the trend in my college years. Working in healthcare, especially abroad, was the main gateway to one’s family’s survival.
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Boy Luneta



Boy Luneta 3




So we drank another round of San Migs. By this time, Boy Luneta's face was turning red and I was getting hot and horny. He beamed savagely,
- Why do you lookin' at me that way?
-Well I...
-I know, I know, I can read it all over your face. You lookin' at me like I'm pancit and adobo which you prob'ly never tasted for the past ten years.
-I hate you.
-Lemme tell you something' Ramon de Goiti. I may be eating shit like a goddamn native chicken but that has just made me more delicious and tasty.
-Stop!

Drunk, Boy Luneta and I walked out of the bar, the hang-out of Manila low life. I nearly tripped on the sidewalk of Roxas Boulevard, he had to support my balance. I was saddened by the old and tired city of Manila but excited by the prospect of having sex again with a fellow Filipino. I was ashamed of my feelings - two days ago, I was living a pretentious clean life in my citadel of false tranquility in the city of Miami, and today, I was wandering along with a hustler in Manila. I felt the presence of both God and Lucifer within me.

Come to think of it, I thought, what have I achieved so far in America? I did good, as far as making it in America is concerned. But what is meant by achieving good in America? Earn enough dollars to have a walk-in closet, a brand new car, a little respect for my service to sick people. Other than that...it’s empty. I did not find a single true love, oh I had faked a lot of love, fooled myself into believing I had found love worth dying for. And I died. I must have faked my death tens of times, because I'm still alive and feeling nothing. In America, I felt like a pancit and adobo, they would always love to taste me, but to consider me as a staple food, forget it. It is so easy to find someone in my bed, someone who in the heat of passion would whisper he loves me dearly, but after that, my bed would be empty again, waiting for another curious lover. Perhaps I could blame my morose empty feeling to my culture. And Americans hate me for saying this all the time. I grew up in the company of my family, my parents and all the parents I knew in my town who have managed to live together forever. Divorce is against the law. So I lived with this expectation that even in my gay world, I will find someone who would stick out with me for better or worse for the rest of my life. One whom I will take care of when he gets sick. One who'd be with me when I get sick. Isn't that the Philippine way? I hoped for someone who would wake up with me in the mornings, retire with me at nights. That's oh so romantic but unreal in my gay world, especially in my American gay world.

So I developed this compensation in relationships. I became the prissy senorita who would stand in a party or a bar in a backoffish manner. Snubbish. Moralistic. Yet shallow because beneath all these, I was extremely sexual. Always leaving me in eternal conflict.

This extreme sexuality became clearer when I found my old fling Boy Luneta. I simply stripped myself of all my inhibitions. Am I crazy or what?

"Where are we now, Boy Luneta?" I asked.

"Oh please...stop these stupid pretensions and hypocrisy Ramon de Goiti. If there is anybody who knows every nook and crook in Luneta, it is you my friend. It's not as if Luneta has changed since you last came here."

I gave out a hearty laugh as we continued walking on the Luneta strip. He was right. It was the same old strip all the way from T. Kalaw to CCP. Except for extra coconut trees and smashed seawall for repair or replacement, nothing was really changed. And to be honest, I was anticipating we would end by one hidden coconut trunk in my secret nook close to the Film Center and make love. Standing. We did that before. By the time we reached my secret coconut tree, I became a one hundred percent slut. I grabbed him by the collar and started kissing his beer tasting mouth. He was caught by surprise and had to push me away.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Sky's the limit," I reminded him.

"If this is what you learned in America, I pity you." he quipped.

I pulled him back again towards me and began unbuttoning his shirt. Being drunk, he started to give in. Until... "Did you hear that?" he asked. In the heat of passion, all my senses except my lust were oblivious. "No I didn't," I said. I started unbuckling his belt. By the time I was about to unzip his pants, he pushed my hands away. "There it goes again, can you hear it?" he persisted. I raised my sex-starved voice. "No!" obviously pissed.

He raised his voice, "Because you're not listening dammit!"

I stopped momentarily, releasing a deep sigh. Okay, I listened. The sound came as a suppressed cry. It was obviously that of a man's. It came in spurts, sometimes prolonged, but it was meant not to be heard. It sounded creepy. Boy Luneta did not waste time in following the sound. Under the moonless night, beside the dark Film Center, he combed through the overgrown wild weeds and searched through shrubbery. He tapped the corrugated iron fence separating the Center from the Manila Bay shore.

"Hello, is anyone there?" he called.

The voice stopped. And then...not far from the coconut tree where I intended to make love, I saw a silhouette, a sitting figure whose back was leaning against the iron fence. The figure was tall, muscular, I saw its arms move, large hands.

God, this can't be true, I thought. I've been in America too long to know that this broken crying man was Caucasian. Walking closer, my suspicion was verified. There he sat, a man with a crew cut, light hair, probably blond. He was holding his cap in his hands, there was a streak of blood running down his face. This is exactly what I hated to see, another incident that will run across the newspapers in the world, claiming how another foreigner was violated in Manila. Another incident that will add to the so-called notoriety of the Filipino which everyone the world over wants to feast about. Another incident that would scare tourists and investors, another to make Filipinos ashamed, or to the likes of me, become guarded and defensive. My friends would often assure me this happens everywhere in the world. Yeah, tell that to the peace loving Swiss. Tell that to Miami which lost a lot of revenues after a few crimes were committed to its tourists. Tourism is simple hospitality. You don't commit crimes to your guests. Incidences like these don't land you in tourism brochures.

But...was the man a tourist? We approached the leaning figure.

Boy Luneta had other thoughts. He was like any typical Luneta resident who believes every Caucasian is American. To him, this American was not a tourist. American tourists like the Japanese come by bus loads taking pictures, or hopping from bar to bar. A solitary American like this sitting in a dark corner of Film Center is either a service man who refused to leave after the closure of the bases or a Peace Corp volunteer who got lost on his way to the American Embassy or a Mormon Missionary. The Protestants are better prepared and less adventurous, Boy Luneta once claimed. But the Mormons? They think the Philippines is Paradise. But surprisingly though, he continued to claim, he hasn't heard of any violated Mormon in the Philippines. I guess it's something to do with their looks - they suffer enough wearing neckties and long sleeves under the Philippine heat. Actually Filipinos worry more about the Mormons than themselves because these missionaries are barely out of their teens, they don't have cars much less money and they give out Bibles containing the Gospel according to Joseph Smith. No, you don't violate the Mormons, Boy Luneta claimed. They are so dedicated to God that God will kill you if you violate them.

"Hey you, what's wrong man?" Boy Luneta asked the poor leaning Caucasian. I preferred to stand behind to watch the events and conversation about to unfold. The Caucasian did not even budge to raise his head. "Enough," he said faintly. "Beat it."

"Say that again?"

This time, the man stared at us with ferocious eyes. "Don't you understand English? What the fuck am I doing here?" I saw it all right there and then, the poor guy was robbed. And beaten too. I could smell liquor from his breath, he wryly waved us to go away.

Boy Luneta was deeply hurt by this gesture. And no one hurts Boy Luneta. He said once, I may be a hustler, but I've got pride.

I had to intervene."I'm sorry..." I stared at the bruised man and all I saw in his face was anger. An anger that didn't care what happened next. And for a person like me who never encountered any problem in a foreign soil, I just felt this immense obligation to ease the pain of this man. If there was one thing I wanted to do is to give back to foreigners in my soil whatever kindness they offered to me in theirs.

"Son of a bitch. Yes, what the fuck are you doing here?" Boy Luneta hissed. Before he got out of hand, I pushed him away from the Caucasian man.

"Sir," I addressed the man in my best Florida accent, "We just wanna know if you're alright. Do you want us to get you some help?"

The man just stared at me blankly.

"Do you want us to call the police?" Still no response.

"We will leave if you want us to." I was answered by silence.

I immediately grabbed the hand of Boy Luneta, who continued to mumble all the Filipino cuss words he knew, there's a lot of them actually. When we were a few yards away, the man spoke. "Wait."

Boy Luneta stopped cursing. We turned back to look at the man who began crying. This time it was a loud cry. I never saw an American cry this loud except those who were about to die in the hospital where I worked.

He wailed, "Tesang, forgive me. I forgot myself!"

What did he mean by that? He was obviously calling the name of a woman. But then, he was as drunk as I and Boy Luneta. Drunk people are capable of many unrestrained acts and can cry out anything.

"Who did this to you?" Boy Luneta asked. His words came out in a false pretense of concern, unfortunately. The Caucasian whose English and accent obviously were American stared at us with a pained face, first at Boy Luneta, then at me. He kept his eyes at me afterwards. He probably thought I was the lesser of two evils. In between his sniffs and sobs, he said to me, "Your accent is different."

I said, "I just arrived from Florida two days ago. I work there."

In saying this, a ray of hope landed on his face.

Not wanting to be ignored and outdone, with or without accent, Boy Luneta kept his inquiry, which progressively sounded more sincere as he rattled along. "Are you a serviceman?"

"No."

"A Peace Corp volunteer?"

"No."

"A...Mormon?"

"No."

At this point, doubt had cast a dark shadow upon all his American-visiting-the-Philippines stereotypes.

"Are you a...you know...a tourist?"

"You can say that again...Fuck, it's all gone...Shit, I'm bleeding...They kicked me in the face..." the American kept mumbling as he felt his body.

Boy Luneta shouted "Why?" As in "Why are you not in your hotel sleeping the night off with fellow tourists? You should know better than to be alone in this dangerous side of the city at this time of the night." In other words, "Why are you different from all the other tourists I know?"

I tapped Boy Luneta's shoulder. I whispered to him, "Shut up." I looked again at the American. I asked, "Who are you and what happened?"

"My name is Keith Devlon. I used to serve in Clark Air Base. I came back to Manila to look for Tesang, a bar hostess I met a couple of years back. I was promised by her friend Leila some leads to her whereabouts. And then...we ended up in a hotel in Manila...and then...oh fuck...fuck...I remember now... I was duped and beaten and stolen of everything I have. My bag of clothes and my wallet."

A series of slurs came out from the lips of Boy Luneta. "So here you are! Another one of them superior Americans coming here to save the world while enjoying a Filipina! And you thought everyone here would call you a hero? This is your own doing man."

Keith Devlon just stared at him with an open mouth. I knew that Boy Luneta was playing nationalistic, really, but to an American, this American at least, his outbursts made him appear like a specimen of wonder. I tapped Boy Luneta once more and gave him the shut-the-fuck-up look.

"Who is this Tesang you're looking for?" I asked Keith. Keith Devlon shook his head, this time, tears rolled down his face, it took him minutes before he could answer.

"She is the woman I love."

Now, my dear readers, I want you to sit down and rest. Because what I have is another long story to share. This is another one of many long stories that Boy Luneta led me to. A story that happened in four weeks, mere four weeks that I intended to spend as a homecoming visit from America. Against your expectations, this is about a love between a foreign boy and a local girl, as opposed to the love between Boy Luneta and me which more likely will always be between a native chicken and a chicken with no wings.




Volume 1
Ramon de Goiti



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2024-05-05 01:16:43
masquerade

Diary of A Masquerade

Midnight.
"I want to know, do you still have any record of that young man dead floating in Manila Bay?" I asked the moon-faced drowsy officer at the information desk of Luneta Police Department. He was wearing a gray uniform; hair stiffened by pomade. Briefly regarding me, he dismissed me with a hand wave. He'd seen me before, I'm sure of that.
"Who are you talking about? We find a lot of dead young men floating in the bay every fucking day," he replied surly as he flicked on the radio, a midnight talk host was discussing someone's love problem.
I surveyed the police station, a long line of people - homeless waifs, gum-chewing hustlers and prostitutes sat on a bench, waiting patiently for something. The officer was now concentrated on the radio.
"He was my friend, the family wants to know his whereabouts."
"What's the name?" he asked irritably, unable to follow the radio program.
"His name was Roberto Policarpio, Sir." I answered.
"No. Your name."
I brought out my school ID, issued by Dela Ateneo University, the exclusive school. Reading it, he stirred and began sorting stuff in his drawer. He thought I was some big shot's son.
"The person you're looking for was Roberto... Roberto what?" His voice mellowed down.
"Policarpio."
He pulled out a black book marked Register, and began running down his finger clumsily on the pages. "When was his body found?"
"Last week. The newspapers reported it Saturday, June 199-."
He flipped the pages towards the end. I surveyed the room, the portrait of Corazon Aquino hang above the Police Seal - Manila's Finest. A small electric fan squeaked, it needed oil. Behind him, a cell contained new arrests; emaciated men against metal bars, two or three sat on the slimy floor and blackened bunks; they wore blank faces.
"Sorry, I could not find that name but check out number 02417," he grunted. "The bloated corpse was claimed by the Universal Morgue."
I pulled a notebook and pen out of my knapsack and wrote the number. "Thanks," I said and turned to leave.
Closing the book, he eyed me for the first time. He saw my black denim and leather jacket, spike hair and ear ring to each of my ears. My hips swayed invitingly. This triggered his suspicion. "Hey kid, why are you out at this time of the night?"
Not again... why did people always ask me this stupid question? I may look like a kid but I am capable of anything!
"I'm on my way home."
His voice resumed its thunder . "Don't give me that crap. I know you. You better not roam the bay tonight, the cell is waiting."
I walked out.
The following morning, I proceeded to Pagasa City, a southern suburb of Manila. I dropped from a taxi in front of the City Public Market. On the left of the market was the church bell-fry that released a sound from its giant bell every hour. On the right was the Philippine Eagle Bus Terminal. Across the market was a small building of white concrete, one that used to be called Marcos building. Its name- Universal Morgue: Caring for the Departed. I went in.
I opened its mahogany door. A gush of smell enveloped me. I sniffed. What was the smell? Peroxide? Sulfur? Ammonia? Vinegar? - the smell brought back a memory hidden in the deep recesses of my brain - an event that occurred fifteen years ago, I was five years old.
"No matter what happens, don't move Antonio," my mother gasped while she tied and bundled me inside a sackcloth; she stuck a handkerchief in my mouth and pushed me under her bed. From there I saw it all - how the Army blew my father's brains, its gelatinous tissue was scattered all over the floor; eyes popped out of sockets, teeth bared, and blood flowed out of unrecognizable mouth like foam. I heard my mother's last plea, it sounded so vague and old but still fresh, "In the name of God, do anything you want, take anything, just don't kill me. I am carrying a child..." The uniformed man holding the rifle answered her with a single fire, her face exploded in tiny fragments, her skull was smashed against the wall by its impact. "Serves her right, another guerilla sympathizer off the face of the earth," the gunner mumbled.
"Mother, why am I hidden here? What did he do to you?" I asked under the bed. Silence answered me. I was led by a strong hand on the cold and barren corridor of a decrepit hospital managed by the Sisters of Charity; I peeked through a door left ajar, the corpses of my disemboweled parents were laid side by side on their metal beds, their blood dripping, mixing on the floor, creeping towards me. "Mother, Father don't go." Sister Pilar, the Spanish nun, put on her gloves and rolled my father's body, washed it with sulfuric soap, "Que horror, que horror," she muttered. The other nuns dressed my mother, lifted her, sealed her in a makeshift coffin. I ran away screaming, towards the church where I heard the canticles of Franciscan monks huddled before the Blessed Virgin Mother. Holding candles, candles, always candles. "My parents won't come back!" The Franciscans did not hear me in their endless prayers- Ave Maria, Our Father, Glory Be To God. Bless the souls of the departed.
The creaking mahogany door closing behind pulled me back to the present. Nauseated, lumps of sweat began casting on my forehead. Since I was five years old, I promised never to see Death again. What was I doing here?
I dragged my feet on the narrow corridor, nothing stirred except the stuffy air that reeked of death. The ambiance was hot and depressing. In a quiet corner sat Mang Vicente, busily jotting and fussing over the stack of records before him; an old man with taut and shiny skin, he sweated under the merciless heat.
I surveyed the room. Like any other room in Manila, it was dark, lighted by a single candle, yes, another burning candle. There was power shut-down in the city; a few weeks ago, the people had moth-balled the Nuclear Power Plant which Westinghouse had offered to build, refusing it on account of its proximity to Mount Pinatubo. "It is better to be in the dark than be annihilated by radiation," they demanded. Aquino succumbed.
The office walls were painted cream baring a gallery of imitation Surrealist paintings by Salvador Dali - distorted contours of men and women, breasts relocated as faces, legs as tongues, arms as genitals; time clocks were melting like ice on hot tables; a miniature skull served as a paperweight on the table; the ceiling fan above the old man creaked.
The old man closed the books and walked towards me. "What can I do for you?"
"My name is Antonio Salamanca. I am looking for a dead friend." My feeble voice matched my flaccid knees that to buckle.
Noticing this, the old man shook my hands. "Forgive the heat, I am saving electricity; the cold is reserved only for the dead."
"I need to bury him. He will not stop haunting me until I do that..." I shuddered at the face that suddenly glinted behind the old man, "Oh God!" My dead mother was staring.
"My child, what's wrong?" the old man asked; his face became serious and his eyes curious.
I pointed at the image. "The face behind you... my mother."
The old man grinned, baring toothless gums. "Oh that?" pressing his palm against the mirror. "That is your own reflection."
I glanced at the mirror again and studied my face, the terrified eyes, eyebrows touching, lips tight, stiffened body, hands balled into fists, how closely I resembled my mother, printed in the savagery of a time past.
The old man led me to a chair. "You look afraid. Are you...wat-yu-ma-kal-it...klostropo- bik? I don't blame you, this office looks like a tomb." He opened the window, rolled up it shutter. Light rushed into the room, together with a cacophony of tooting horns, the noise of pedestrians on the street outside, the hawking peddlers in the nearby market, the music from a radio, the heat of the scorching Manila sun in this hot summer. I released a stifled breath. The old man blew off the candle. "You see now why I shut my windows, this heat burns like hell."
After I regained my composure, I pulled out my notebook and looked for the number given to me by the Luneta Police officer. "...Number 02417?"
"Oh that one." The old man opened his book again. "Business is so slow nowadays. The dead are not being claimed even if we send out fliers. What else can we do to prevent them from rotting and decaying? The Public Health officials want us to freeze them. Do you know how much that costs alongside daily brown-outs? A lot! Self-generators are costing us a fortune too." He paused. "Oh here, 02417 was delivered to the Anatomy Department of Manila University."
I was puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Oh you don't know our policy. We temporarily claim the dead in this morgue and allow a waiting period of one week, after that, we sell the corpses. There are lots of universities vying for the cadavers - Anatomy courses."
"Damn. Couldn't you wait until at least...?" My voice broke. They won't sell Roberto's body.
"Don't be upset, I know how hard it is for us Filipinos to take this, we demand utmost respect for our dead. But we can't afford it anymore, times are getting hard. How long have you been friends?"
I couldn't answer.
As if taking advantage of my sorrow, he took me by the hand, "Come," he said, "I'll show you the place."
He led me to a narrow hallway, cold and barren, until we entered a room past the morgue. Inside this room, a big aquarium structure contained bodies: hanging upright, dark brown, head tilted or bowed, arms stiffened to sides, mouths gaped, they looked like fish hanging by the metal wires in the market outside. They were immersed in formalin and other chemicals that irritated my nostrils.
"These are the cadavers for sale - people who came to hospitals and died with unpaid bills, ran over by vehicles, who died of starvation. In those small boxes," he pointed at tiny carton boxes neatly arranged in a corner, "are the remains of mangled bodies brought in for cremation. All these corpses have the same misfortune -nobody claimed them. It costs too much to die now. Especially if you come from the provinces... in every town you pass by, there is a death tax to pay. You have to donate money to the priest before he would say mass, you have to buy a coffin, funeral clothes, a tomb. To tell you the truth, it is much better for some to stay in here."
He led me back.
"I need to tell you something that has bothered me your since your friend was brought here. Did you say his name was Roberto Policarpio? I remember him now, we had to pump out a lot of fluid from his dead corpse. No one wanted to touch him. His temperature was warm for days, he did not wrinkle even after being dehydrated. And I kept on dreaming... dreaming of him..."
"What do you mean?" I asked distrustfully.
"Ghosts manifest their presence immediately after leaving the body. Some stay for a short time, others roam forever. There are signs - a door opens, a vase falls, a revolving fan stops, a voice, body heat... it depends on the completion of life's missions. The longest to stick around are those that died of self inflicted wounds, suicide, starvation, soldiers in battles, even smokers."
"Why?"
"Because of unfinished businesses."
"How do you know all these?" I had the feeling he was pulling my leg.
"When you walk among the dead for as long as I did, you learn so much about them. They are not stones. They appear to me at nights. The darkness in this morgue is not dark at all. You need to acquire a special vision to see that. I learned it only after decades of work. There is a trace of dull and eery light enveloping the corpses. Sometimes I see figures of human beings sitting beside their own carcasses. I've got so used to them that I just wave goodbye in the dark, they wave back. They look happy. Peaceful. Grateful for the job I do for them. It is only your friend that is different. Unlike the others, he invaded my dreams. I went to a fortune teller in Quiapo about this but he explained it all in vague words. In my dream, your friend cries and cries but he won't tell me why. He is the loneliest ghost I've ever seen." He was eyeing me carefully as he talked.
"He came to me and led me to... " I stopped in mid-sentence. Why would I tell my secret to him?
"His ghost is probably warning you of things to happen. Or he wants you to take care of his unfinished business."
"Whatever it is, I don't know."
We entered the room of cadavers. Almost fifty of them in various forms of dismemberment - skins flapped open, cut abdomens, intestines hanging from the tables, hearts in garbage cans. "Ah these people don't know how to give respect for the dead." He mumbled.
"Who are they?"
"Doctors who come here to extend their researches and experiments; who practice on them before performing heavy surgeries. The dead are so kind. Hospitals and laboratories are very strict in the utilization of cadavers."
"And... after complete destruction, what happens to the cadavers?" I looked at the bodies with sharp and keen eyes, hoping I will find Robert among them. They were all unidentifiable. Eyes plucked leaving sockets stuffed with petroleum jelly, faces like aliens.
"We stuff them in those tiny carton boxes and burn them in the furnace. Use the ashes as fertilizer."
"Will that happen to Robert too?"
"Unfortunately, he is now a property of the university. It will cost triple to get him back."
He tried to placate me. "Here is what I can do. I'll contact Manila University to give me back his body, I know Sergio, the caretaker there. I will let you have your friend's ashes in an urn."
"Manila University?"
"Yes, that is where he was sent."
"It is funny, he studied Pre-Med in that university."
"They won't recognize him anymore, if that is your concern. They will further soak him in chemicals until he's ready for the Medical students, at least he will contribute to the knowledge of his schoolmates."
"I am curious...how much did you sell him?"
"My son, we don't reveal prices. Respect the dead."
"When I reclaim his ashes, will it cost me?"
"Of course, two thousand pesos."
I walked away without knowing where to go. I crossed Taft Avenue and proceeded to Manila Bay. I strolled along Roxas Boulevard, beside the bay. There was a gentle breeze, this comforted me.
I carried with me a knapsack containing the diaries of Roberto Policarpio. "Why did you kill yourself Roberto?"I whispered silently.
The splashes spawned by South China Sea waves hammered against the rocks, as an answer to my question. A gust of wind embraced me again. The mesmerizing reflection of the sunset upon the waves transformed the bay into a golden mantle-spread. On its shore stood its guards, old coconut trees turned knights, destined by the gods to preserve its pristine beauty. Behind the trees, sky scrapers appeared minute under the oriental sky, caressed by the birth of gloom as the sun descended upon the sea. I was ready to fall under its magical spell.
No, I would not be fooled by Manila Bay especially tonight when the thin twilight of the day assumed the color of blood. I unzipped my knapsack, pulled out the diaries and began to turn each page. On every white leaf that batted against the wind were words like razor blades cutting my flesh bit by bit, slice by slice. My vision was illuminated by the soft glimmer radiating from a bulb hanging from a solitary lamppost behind me. I heard faint distant sounds of footsteps and sensed a Presence observing me. I did not know what to do with these diaries.
"Help me understand Robert Policarpio before I succumb to madness. Enlighten me with all the things I saw."
I paused and closed my eyes to allow my imagination to wander, like an arrow darting in reverse, tunneling back to the source and beginning of it all. And then I heard the giggles of a child followed by a familiar voice.
alex maskara pinoy
2022-03-18 23:57:18
masquerade