Forgiving Imelda Marcos, page 16
“Maybe on our way back,” I said, hoping by then you’d find something else to occupy yourself with. But no. You insisted on seeing it that very moment, punctuating your point with some theatrical tears.
“Oh my God, will you shut up?” said her youngest daughter.
“Language,” said Mrs. Aquino. She was looking for a tissue with which to wipe your face.
I felt bad for her, not only for the awkwardness of the situation, but for the pain she had to conceal from the children. I was sure she was thinking of her husband, and perhaps wondering if it was such a good idea to be leaving town while he was alone and suffering. I’m not saying that I blame you, of course. You were four years old at the time. You were filling the role any child that age is meant to play.
Mrs. Aquino came up with a shrewd compromise. Before we all got out of the van, she told us we’d use the opportunity to reflect on dictatorships and what happens when people’s rights are taken away. She gave each of you some time to think about it.
Once we got down, we asked a stranger to take the picture. At the count of three, we all raised our hands with our index finger and thumb sticking out. That L was supposed to stand for “Laban,” or “Fight.” I believe it was the first time the sign was ever used, and nobody around us knew any better. So we got away with our little act of insurrection.
Perhaps you can remind me to send the picture to you. It might come in handy someday, if you want to tell the story. But I’m merely suggesting, not insisting. As I’ve said before, what you want to do with this story is completely up to you. You think on what’s best for you now. You decide.
* * *
“Welcome to Baguio,” I said. “Ma’am, we’ve finally made it.”
“Yes, I can read the sign,” said Mrs. Aquino. Ahead of us, a big arch reading SUMMER CAPITAL, CITY OF BAGUIO spanned the roadway. “But thank you, Lito. It’s a miracle.”
I could’ve reminded her that the Crown did break down on us halfway through. If miracles had been in play, the radiator should’ve fixed itself, or somehow the old car should have held itself together until we arrived. But I let it slide. It had been a long day for both of us.
“Look,” Mrs. Aquino said. “Fresh strawberries!”
As if she’d uttered the magic words, the streetlights lit up. It was a sight to behold, the crates of fruits and flowers and vegetables displayed on the sidewalk, coated with a layer of mist, as if we were driving through the refrigerated aisle in a supermarket. I could see why the Americans had loved Baguio, how the climate had reminded them of home, and why they went to the trouble of building much of the city.
“We used to bring the kids here,” Mrs. Aquino said as we passed the willow trees of Burnham Park. “Do you remember the carousel rides and the bumper cars? Kris especially enjoyed the swan boats. Do you see them, Lito? The boats are still there.”
“I see them,” I said, thinking about a particular boy who also used to like to ride the boats, greedily munching on his peanut brittle all the while.
“I never thought I’d come back here,” Mrs. Aquino said.
“I never thought I’d be back here, either,” I said.
It occurred to me then that it was unlikely that Mrs. Aquino would go on another long journey. After this, she might be confined to her own house in Manila for the rest of her days. And I think the thought also occurred to her. We shared a moment of silence.
A muffled ringing came from somewhere in the backseat, then grew louder and sharper as Mrs. Aquino found her purse and opened it.
“Hello,” she said. “Hello? Can you hear me?”
I heard a beep and then her sigh.
“The phone died,” she said. “I forgot to charge it earlier.”
“Do you want me to turn the car around?” I joked. “There’s still time to go back, ma’am.”
“No,” she said. “I must go on with this.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
We stopped at the intersection, where a charity group’s billboard sat on an island next to their iconic yellow cog. I had seen many of their advertisements before, but never had I paid as much attention to one as I did then. THE FOUR-WAY TEST, the sign proclaimed, with the following sentences:
IS IT THE TRUTH?
IS IT FAIR TO ALL CONCERNED?
WILL IT BUILD GOODWILL AND BETTER FRIENDSHIPS?
WILL IT BE BENEFICIAL TO ALL CONCERNED?
Tests are sometimes a good way to overcome our own biases, forcing us to be more honest with ourselves. Of course, they’re only as good as our sincerity in coming up with real answers. In my mind I substituted “it” with “forgiving Imelda Marcos.” Such as, “Is forgiving Imelda Marcos the Truth?” That first question was rather awkwardly phrased, I admit. But I thought it had more to do with facts—forgiving her would become true in just a matter of minutes or a few hours, depending on how the talk between Mrs. Aquino and Mrs. Marcos transpired. “Will forgiving Imelda Marcos be Fair to all concerned?” The Aquino children would probably have a very negative answer to that one. But because Mrs. Aquino was the head of the family, her decision wouldn’t be seen as merely personal. It would carry the full force of the entire clan. Her forgiveness, I thought, would practically and inevitably mean that all Aquinos would have also forgiven Imelda Marcos in the eyes of the public. “Will that build Goodwill and Better Friendships?” Not if it was premature. In fact, it would likely create even more discord among the Aquinos—not to mention many Filipinos, especially victims of martial law, who might feel betrayed. Those who stood up for Mrs. Aquino because she stood for fairness, freedom, and transparency—what would happen if that icon of democracy herself decided to let go of the past? And here was the biggest problem: the answer to the fourth and last question, “Will it be Beneficial to all concerned?” I thought long and hard before concluding that only Mrs. Aquino would likely benefit from forgiving Imelda Marcos. It would be cathartic for her. But even the Marcoses, whose political and social standing might be elevated by Mrs. Aquino’s act, would deny deriving any benefit. Because they’d deny the need to be forgiven in the first place, having always denied any wrongdoing, and never having demonstrated any kind of remorse or contrition or humility.
I hoped that Mrs. Aquino had seen the billboard so she, too, could ponder its questions for herself. But when I checked the rearview mirror, I saw that she was applying makeup and had already taken off her scarf.
* * *
The house on Poblete Street was long and symmetrical. Even in the night, I could see that every inch of it was painted in different shades of pink. Gables framed each roof, and on each triangle two sets of lights were turned on to display a rectangular window. The whole thing looked to me like a giant dollhouse, or a child’s idea of a fancy birthday cake. A driveway unfurled toward us from the center, with trees and some well-behaved shrubbery dotting both sides. Barring us from entry was a black iron gate with iron curls that reminded me of a peacock’s tail. The gate was as dainty as a tiara. The house seemed to want to be seen, but mostly to be admired from a distance.
“I’ve no doubt this is the right place,” I said, pulling the hand brake.
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Aquino said. “Will it be okay if you stay here? It might be better if I go in by myself.”
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll just see you to the gate.”
I got out and helped Mrs. Aquino from the car. I rang the doorbell as she smoothed away the wrinkles on her dress. Then she rubbed her face, as if wishing she could also straighten the lines up there. She slung her purse securely over her shoulder and tried to correct her spine.
I was about to push the doorbell a second time when Mrs. Aquino stopped me. A maid in uniform had come out from the house, walking rather slowly.
“Magandang gabi,” Mrs. Aquino said. “Is your mistress in?”
The maid’s expression suddenly changed as she approached us.
She wiped her hands on her apron. “Good evening po, ma’am,” she said. “Are they expecting us po?” She was using so many polite markers.
“Of course they are,” I said. I got a cold stare from Mrs. Aquino.
“Yes, sir,” the maid said. She was still wiping her hands on her apron even though they seemed to have dried. “I’m sorry, but the mistress has gone out.”
“What time will she be back?” I asked.
“I don’t really know,” the maid said. “But as you can see, her car isn’t here.”
“It’s okay, dear,” Mrs. Aquino said. “Don’t worry.”
The maid seemed like she was about to turn around and head back. “Psst,” I said, lowering my voice. “Can’t we at least wait inside?”
The maid looked unsure.
“It’s getting rather cold,” I said. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.”
She looked at Mrs. Aquino and then nodded at me.
“Please do come in,” the maid said. She opened the gate and escorted us up the driveway. “Just go straight, ma’am,” she said, pointing to the main door.
Mrs. Aquino thanked her and then said to me, “Actually, Lito, maybe you should wait inside, too. This might take a while.”
* * *
The maid served us tea in the living room, and though I’d personally have preferred to drink beer or soda at that hour, I thought the matching porcelain cup and saucer were more suited to the ambience, so I played along. There were paintings and statues of nude figures next to the saintlier, clothed ones. I believe we’ve all been conditioned to consider this the height of artistic taste. But why, I wonder, is Jesus never completely naked on the cross, as he probably really was when the Romans crucified him? Perhaps that would distract too many people from their prayers. Funny how confining our taboos can be.
Lots of gold everywhere here, as if Midas himself had stumbled in drunk one night and randomly touched things while trying to find his way through. Golden clocks and lampshades, gold-polished light switches, gold picture frames, a gold-and-crystal chandelier, gold-painted handrails, even the grand piano was draped loosely in yellow velvet with gold trimming. You name it—in that house, it was gold.
“Oh, the orchids!” Mrs. Aquino said, standing up. “My goodness.” She slowly made her way to the far end of the living room, which was connected to a greenhouse much, much larger than hers in Manila. I wondered if she realized that she was still clutching her teacup in one hand. “May I?” she asked the maid, and the maid moved to open the glass door for her.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Aquino said. “This truly means a lot to me.”
The maid seemed a bit puzzled by Mrs. Aquino’s sudden effusiveness but managed to use it to her advantage. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “Those flowers also mean a lot to my mistress. It’s a pain to look after them, honestly. Please be so kind, ma’am, as to carefully appreciate them.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Aquino said.
I followed Mrs. Aquino’s lead and stood up to do my own walking tour, though I confined myself to the living room. There were some photos on top of the piano. The maid must’ve thought I wanted to experiment with the keys, though, to tell you honestly, I cannot play an instrument or even sing, for the life of me. She came over right away and asked how she could “be of any help.”
“I’m just admiring the family pictures,” I said. “Do you have your own, by the way? Kids, I mean.”
“Two daughters,” she said. “And you?”
“A son,” I said.
“Grandkids?” she asked.
“None,” I said. “As far as I know.”
She smiled. “I have several, including a pair of twins.”
I hadn’t expected to hear that, mainly because I’d placed her in her mid-twenties. Not that it would be impossible to have grandchildren at that age. But then I thought it more likely that she was probably older than I had earlier imagined. I must have checked her out from head to toe. I didn’t mean to. But she clearly caught me in the act, because she said, “If you’re wondering, I had mine when I was very young.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “I guess it’s not a bad decision to have kids earlier in one’s life.” Immediately I felt like a fool for saying it, because the topic of pregnancy could be delicate, you know, especially coming from the opposite sex. The last thing I wanted was to insinuate or be presumptive.
But she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she said that she agreed, because she couldn’t imagine having kids again. I said children are a nuisance until they grow up and leave the house, which is when you miss them the most and wish they could be small again.
“Ah, that’s what grandkids are for,” she said.
We left it at that. She went on to arrange the photo frames in a way that suggested a certain pattern had to be followed, perhaps to imply chronology or to expose the more flattering images of the family, a formula with which only she, and maybe her mistress, would be familiar.
There was a certain restraint to the maid’s movements that somewhat reminded me of your mother. She had your mother’s long, silky hair, which could be a liability in this line of work. Your mother always tied hers in a bun, though, whereas this maid let it all flow down. The maid had grace, yes, but she also had something else. Self-consciousness, I believe. She seemed to know, or affect to know, that she was being watched all the time. I don’t think your mother ever felt that way, because she was always so consumed by what she was doing in the present.
I remember wondering how much of that self-consciousness came from the maid’s personality, and how much had something to do with her employer. What must it be like to work for Imelda Marcos? Was she strict or easygoing? As someone who valued beauty above all else, did she expect her servants to uphold her standards of beauty as well? And what about her children? As I tried to look for clues in the family pictures, I played this scene in my mind:
Imelda and her children—her son and her daughters—go shopping for clothes. At every stop, she sits patiently on a chair and asks them to come out of the fitting room to model each ensemble for her inspection. “Yes!” she says, or “Try a size smaller,” or “Tsk, tsk, tsk, how ugly.” Perhaps those stores are closed to the public while they are inside. Or perhaps she isn’t so patient. Perhaps she just says, “Take everything you want and let’s try all of them at home.” It could have been very fun—and terrifying—to have Imelda as your mother.
“How about her grandkids?” I asked the maid. “Do they visit here a lot?”
“Grandkid,” the maid said. “Only one.” She pointed to a picture of a boy whose smile revealed his two rabbit-sized front teeth.
“He’s very cute,” I said.
“He’s passed,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s gone. It was a terrible accident. He drowned while swimming in the pool by himself. It was very difficult for all of us, but especially for my mistress.”
“I feel so bad,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I wouldn’t have expected you to know. It was a couple of years ago.”
We were quiet for a while as I processed the information. I thought it a bit strange that I’d never heard about the accident.
“Where are Imelda’s pictures, anyway?” I asked, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t seen any. “Are you hiding them from us?”
She didn’t laugh at my joke. “What do you mean—Imelda?”
“I meant to say Mrs. Marcos, of course. I’m sorry.”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“You know, your mistress.” I picked up each of the pictures, one by one, completely messing up the order in which they had just been carefully placed. Not only could I not find Mrs. Marcos, but Mr. Marcos and the children were absent as well. None of the people in the pictures were familiar at all.
“Are we at the wrong house?” I said. I began to panic. I began to walk toward the greenhouse to fetch Mrs. Aquino, and then I saw her purse lying on the coffee table. I found the pink baronial envelope inside. “What’s your address here, again?”
The maid told me. I showed her the envelope, how the address matched exactly, right below where it said “Imelda Marcos.”
Now it was the maid’s turn to look confused. She took the envelope and, before I could stop her, reached inside to pull out its contents. She shook her head.
“Here,” she said. She pointed at the card, which looked a little frayed around the edges:
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO A WEDDING RECEPTION
MAY 1, 1954
“I don’t understand,” I said.
The maid motioned for me to inch forward to where we could catch a glimpse of Mrs. Aquino inside the greenhouse. Mrs. Aquino was seated on a bench, still holding her teacup. She seemed so small and frail, next to the orchid blooms and their hanging roots. In the artificial light, her dress looked a bit discolored, no longer the pristine white of that morning. She seemed to be smiling, too. And at certain points, I could see that her mouth was moving, as if she were talking to someone else.
But she was all alone.
“It happens, you know,” the maid said. “Especially at her age.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said. I shook my head and continued to stare at Mrs. Aquino.
“It happens to the best of us,” the maid said.
Finally, I asked, “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”
* * *
Mrs. Aquino hadn’t moved by the time I got back to the living room, as if she had turned into part of the greenhouse’s décor, like the statue of an old, broken aristocrat, or perhaps a character from a Greek tragedy. I closed the glass door behind me and gently sat next to her on the bench. Arranged in rows in front of us were some plastic pots, which I imagined served as the plant nursery. I could see nothing beyond the windows but the dark void of the night.
