“No!” I said. “Not Dencio. Look, I want the car. Give me a day or two. I’ll talk to my father. Three hundred sixty-five? Consider it sold.”
She glanced at the SUV again, wistfully, then smiled at me. “This is a very sad day. I’ve lost my husband. They’re moving his body to the University Chapel, and I will be going there later to join him. I came home just to change and — and because you called to say you were dropping by. You make me very happy by... helping me recover. Thank you. We have a deal.” She took both of my hands in hers and pressed them, just long enough to send over a surge of warmth. “Let me get the keys so you can take it for a drive. And maybe you can drive me to the chapel, no? We can pay our respects to someone we both loved, you and I.”
I could hear birds singing in the mango trees.
Like I said, somebody died in this car I’m driving, but I’m certainly not going to tell that to my future passengers, especially if it’s someone I might want to hang out with and drive around, maybe to Tagaytay, because I know it will freak them out. Heck, I’ll admit it, owning this Ford Escape freaks me out — and it’s only been four days — so much so that while I love this car, I’m ready to convince my dad to sell it and maybe find something else. I’m sure we can clear a profit of at least a hundred thousand pesos on the deal if we move fast. My dad and I can split that up and maybe I can buy an iPhone 4S with my share. It won’t be a car though it’ll look good too. But first I have to get some papers from the widow. I didn’t realize all the IDs and powers of attorney — which apparently she’d managed to get the professor to execute for this and that emergency, in happier days — that you need to transfer a certificate of registration. I’m going back to the wake tomorrow for those odd details, and to listen to all those speeches long-faced people make about what a nice man and brilliant colleague the dear departed was, but also to ask a few more questions of Lalaine Sanvictores. I hate these tired clichés, but there’s more to this woman — let’s just say there’s more to woman — than meets the eye.
Cariño Brutal
by R. Zamora Linmark
Tondo
Friday, September 20, 1974, 7:45 a.m.
Lala makes the sign of the cross when she comes upon the naked, mutilated body of Vanessa Blanca hanging from the ancient balete tree on Moriones Street, a block away from the Tutuban train station. Like most of the Tondo residents in the crowd, Lala believes that the tree — beside the small bridge overlooking the shanties along the black, stagnant waters of Canal de la Reina — is haunted by evil spirits. Lala’s mother once told her that during the war, the Japs hung a handsome American corporal and his Filipino spy from its branches. She tries to look away, shifting her stare from the grotto of the Virgin Mary that the priests from Santo Niño Church had built inside the hollowed base of the tree. But her gaze keeps returning to the body of the former Miss Gay Tondo Universe.
Vanessa. Vanessa Blanca. Nobody’s mistress. Everybody’s whore. Last known residence: Olongapo, before she escaped to Tondo after President Marcos declared martial law on September 21, 1972. “Operation Biniboy” had gone into effect, banning transvestites in Olongapo and every other town occupied by the US military.
Vanessa was a bakla who preferred sex with straight men. Bakla. Biniboy. Businessgirl. A puta con huevos. Add these names up in whatever language and they equal “Beauty.” A beauty now reduced to a castrated goddess. Vanessa’s long, ash-blond tresses have been shaved off. Her bra and torn panties stuffed in her mouth. The cord of her hip pads, drooping over her back like a cape, is coiled around her neck. Slash marks and stab wounds on her torso. Cigarette burns on her inner thighs. Her penis, severed.
Fourteen-year-old Lala wants to cry but can’t. Questions gnaw at her like the balete’s aerial roots that, upon touching the earth, will creep toward the tree and feast on what’s left of its origin.
Who did this to Vanessa? And why?
Vanessa was her among ina. A surrogate mother who made Lala feel and think that she mattered. Who convinced Lala she had a future outside of Tondo, outside of a life that reeked of gang wars at Pier 2, Barrio Matae’s shit, and Balut’s burning trash.
For three years, Lala lived with Vanessa, learned from her, waited on her. She ran Vanessa’s errands, bought her gin and cigarettes, cleaned up after her, massaged her feet. It was Vanessa who gave Lala, born Efren Cruz, her name: Lala L’amour.
Lala did not mind being an alalay to Vanessa. Apprenticeship with a renowned Tondo Beauty was coveted by any boy who dreamt of being crowned the next Miss Milky Way, Miss Independence Gay, Muse of the Night, or Miss Gaygaylangin.
In exchange for Lala’s loyalty and servitude, Vanessa fed her, dressed her up in the latest creations by Manila’s fashion czar, Caloy Badidoy. Vanessa sent Lala to school. First, at Magat Salamat Elementary School, where she finished third in her class. Then, to Gregorio Perfecto High School, where Lala was an honors student until she dropped out five months ago.
When Lala turned twelve, Vanessa started her on the high-end birth control pill “Diane” so Lala could grow breasts. In no time, she blossomed into a young Vanessa. Adopting Vanessa’s sexy and sophisticated ways. Accentuating the “A” in attitude, Vanessa-style. Accepting her Vanessa-given duties as a prelude to beauty with danger.
As for love — Lala had to learn about it the hard way. One day, she came home from school with bruises and a swollen lip because the boy she had a crush on had punched her in the face and called her Bakla! When Lala told the story to Vanessa, Vanessa just laughed. “Good for you, Lala. Now, you know better.” A week went by and another beating occurred — same bully. Vanessa called Lala “pathetic” and told her to toughen up or else go back to her rat-infested shanty on Pilapil Street and become a washerwoman like her mother.
Vanessa.
Cruel, cariño brutal Vanessa. Who believed there was no greater love.
Lala remembers how Vanessa suddenly left one night without saying goodbye to anyone. Not to her pimp Divina Balenciaga from Kambal Krus. Nor to Lola Brigida, the walking drugstore of Pritil, who supplied Vanessa with Madrax, Tussonex cough syrup, Magadol, and the horse tranquilizer fondly known as “Pinoy Ekis.”
After weeks without hearing from Vanessa, Lala and the Tondo Beauties wondered if she’d been taken to the dungeons of Camp Crame. Or nabbed by the cops at Precinct Five for violating curfew, raped for alleged theft, and, just for fun, killed. Or maybe she was happily holed up at the Manila Hotel with some American or Japanese businessman.
Lala continues to stare at Vanessa, barely recognizable. Vanessa’s ankle catches Lala’s eye. BNG. Lala doesn’t remember Vanessa having a tattoo or getting involved with the Bahala Na Gang, or any gangs for that matter. Vanessa would’ve told Lala. Besides, Vanessa was not the type to be claimed. A tattoo could only mean she’d spent time in jail where she’d had to choose which gang would protect her — Sigue Sigue Sputnik, Low-Waist, OXO, Commando, Bahala Na. All in exchange for sex.
Lala searches the crowd. She spots Divina Balenciaga comforting Lola Brigita. She is about to wave to Divina when the cops show up.
The crowd — mostly students from Gregorio Perfecto High, street vendors, and market-goers en route to the nearby Divisoria, Manila’s mercantile mecca — disperses. Except for a barefooted boy ordered by one of the cops to stay behind.