XVI

I’d breakfasted with my tita Dom, pan de sal and lansones, and by the time I made it back to my tita Rosa’s house, it was almost time for lunch. The weather had cleared and the air seemed washed, the storm of the previous night more in the realm of nightmares than weather.

“Do you know who missed you last night?” said Tita Rosa, walking out of the kitchen. To answer her own question she gestured dramatically down at her side. Tito Iñigo was wagging his tail with such energy that his whole rear end was wagging too. He ran over and I reached down to pat him. “I can’t take this dog in the house anymore. It’s over. You know, he urinated on your tito Ben’s leg.”

“What did Tito Ben say?”

“He was taking a nap. I thought it better not to wake him.” She thought for a minute. “And then I forgot to tell him.” Tita Rosa got a stern look on her face. “Enjoy him while you can. I’m giving him to my chicken suki in the market. She needs a dog to keep away the rats.”

“You can’t do that,” I said. “She’ll feed him chicken bones and it’ll kill him.”

“He’s a Filipino dog, Ting. That is their life.”

“But he’s already ruined. We’ve been feeding him hamburger and he sleeps on a blanket.”

“And he urinates on the blanket. And on people.”

“I’m going to train him,” I said. I picked him up. He looked nervous, understanding that his life was in the balance.

“You can’t train him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a Filipino dog. You can’t train Filipino dogs.”

“Give me three weeks.” I said. I set the dog back on the floor. “Five hundred pesos says I can train him.” What I was really saying was that Tito Iñigo wasn’t doomed, that given the advantages of an American dog, Tito Iñigo would perform equally. On some level, my aunt understood this. She knew I was frustrated by her habit of sorting all dilemmas into how things just were and how they would never be. But she also knew that this was the correct way to think.

“Fine, three weeks, no accidents,” she said. “But it’s easy money for me.” Tita Rosa grabbed my elbow and started steering me into the kitchen, leaning heavily against me. “Oh, I am forgetting,” she said, stopping. “Have you heard from Laird?”

“No. Why would I hear from Laird?”

“Remi telephoned me. Laird hasn’t come home and there’s still no word from him.”

“He wasn’t at the play. It must be the weather. Tita Dom said he was out of town.”

“He was. His plane was delayed, but it landed this morning. He didn’t show up for the flight.”

“Where was the flight from?”

“Zamboanga,” said my aunt. I helped her settle into a wicker chair. “What would he be doing in Mindanao?”

“I don’t know. Tita Dom and I saw him going into the Philippine Telegraph offices last week. Maybe they know something.”

“Why didn’t you ask him what he was doing?”

“We saw him from the window at Dad’s.” An element of the ominous had entered this narrative. Something was off—or was this just me being suspicious of Laird? I wasn’t sure. “Tell Tita Remi to call the offices of the Philippine Telegraph. Maybe Laird was on assignment.”

“I’ll give Remi’s number to you and you can fill her in.”

I really did not want to get involved, but I also knew that refusing the request of a woman in her tenth decade was unacceptable. “Let me ask some people, Tita, but I can’t promise you I’ll learn anything.”

Tito Iñigo, like most dogs, was happy outside. He enthusiastically urinated on a plant and on the tire of my aunt’s car and then began trotting down the drive to find more places to empty himself, intrigued by the praise each time he lifted his leg. I followed, lit cigarette in hand. Laird must have been writing something for someone, but why would the Philippine Telegraph send him to Zamboanga when they had a slew of seasoned journalists who spoke English, Tagalog, and the difficult-to-master Chavacano—a Spanish creole wrestled into its own language through the mangle of Cebuano—as well as Cebuano itself? Zamboanga was the largest city in the Muslim-dominated part of Mindanao, but Davao was the largest city on the island. Zamboanga had a branch of the Jesuit university, Ateneo, and for a time—roughly five years—my tito Ben had lived there. Famously, no one in my family had visited him. Because people did not travel to that area.

The wealthy Muslims and Catholics in the Bangsamoro had learned to get along but were now plagued by terrorist groups. The ISIS-affiliated Abu Sayyaf was the most violent of these. Their recent attempt to establish a califate in the city of Marawi had resulted in the five-month siege that eventually routed the attempt but also ground the city into rubble. All of Mindanao was now under martial law.

Over twenty journalists, Filipino and foreign, as well as a slew of missionaries, bird-watchers, tourists, and one unfortunate Malaysian gecko trader had been kidnapped by Abu Sayyaf in the past two decades. When Abu Sayyaf’s demands for ransom were not met—and on occasion when they were—they beheaded people.

Laird must have known all this and more. What had happened to him? He was not my responsibility, but as I cast an eye to the top of the stairs where my tita Rosa was standing, looking out across her domain—the driveway, the fountain, the stand of orchids, and then me, I knew it was my American self that had stated that: in the Philippines, everyone was responsible for everyone else.

I started with Inchoy, but he did not pick up, so I sent him a text. Next, I tried Zackito, who was at that moment shopping for a debut gift for his niece at the Robinsons in Padre Faura. “I don’t know anyone at the Telegraph,” said Zackito. “But I remember at that party at Adriatico, your cousin was talking to José Martin, and even if he doesn’t know where your cousin is now, he’s the man to find out, especially in Mindanao.” Zackito had his number handy and sent it to me.

I left a message for José Martin and headed back up the stairs with Tito Iñigo in tow. Tita Rosa was back at her desk, looking despondently into the air before her.

“Well?” she said.

“I called a couple of people. Let’s see if they know.”

Tita Rosa nodded grimly.

“Did you check with Jim?” I asked.

“Carmi’s calling him.” Tita Rosa’s face crumpled in confusion. “This is why Filipinos should not go to America. It deranges them. Why would Laird go to Mindanao?”

I took the seat on the opposite side of the desk. “Right now, you have to stop worrying and do what you’re good at.”

“What can I do, at this age?” She held my gaze with her eyes, which were wise but, I now noticed, were growing milky with cataracts.

“This,” I said. I took the rosary beads from the corner of the tabletop and poured them into her hands. “It’s Friday. Sorrowful Mysteries.”

She looked at the beads but did not move. She was really worried. I took the rosary back from her. “All right, Tita, I’ll start. Agony in the Garden.” And I launched into the first Our Father.

Wednesday evening came and there was still no word on Laird. We were gathered at my tita Rosa’s with Tito Ben and Tita Dom for our traditional post-Mass meal, and despite the fact that my aunt’s cook had made kare kare, a family favorite, the mood was subdued.

“I knew something was wrong when Laird didn’t show up for the play,” said Tita Dom. “I knew it.”

We were mostly quiet through dinner. Tito Ben was wearing shorts, which I found unusual, and when I questioned him about it, he said something cryptic about getting old and going to the bathroom being difficult in pants. Tito Iñigo was sitting by his leg, looking a touch guilty.

I asked, “What did Remi say Laird was doing in Mindanao?”

“I don’t know. Visiting some new friends. Seeing the Philippines. Laird is not one for sharing.” My tita Rosa shook her head. “Remi said he was so reserved, always reading in his room or insisting on taking a taxi and not the driver. She didn’t know what he was doing all the time, and he made it hard to ask.” She pushed her plate, half the food uneaten, to the center of table. “He was like an American. She couldn’t ask him things.”

Late that evening, as I was getting ready for bed, I got a call. It was José Martin. I’d been wondering when he was going to get back to me.

“Ting,” he said. “I don’t have anything for you. I don’t know anyone at the Telegraph. You know that’s Gumboc’s paper.”

“It was worth a shot.” I sighed. “Look, can you keep an eye out? I’m not close to Laird Bontotot, but he is a relative, and my tita’s worried. This feels like it could be developing into a news story.”

“Yeah, well, that is definitely a possibility.”

“Can you let me know?”

“You scratch my back . . .”

This surprised me. “What could I possibly have that you might want?”

“Aren’t you in thick with Chet Rey?”

“I know him.”

“Yeah, that’s sort of what I heard, but not really.” He laughed.

Now I was curious. “Why would Chet be of interest to you?”

“Okay, Ting. Something called Eagle’s Nest keeps coming up in connection with Rocco Basilang. It’s in his emails.”

“Rocco’s emails?” I wondered who had managed to hack into Rocco’s account. “It’s got to be some construction deal. Why is that suspicious?”

“Only because no details are there. Nothing. Just references to Eagle’s Nest that circulate with some powerful players, Chet included.”

“How do you know he’s not investing in gambling or brothels? Ten years ago, Chet had all those deals going down in Macao. Maybe it’s drugs?”

“It’s not drugs, Ting.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because in one of the emails, it goes straight to Gumboc.” Gumboc passionately hated drugs and would never have involved himself in a drug-related venture. “I’m sure it was sent accidentally through the wrong account, so it’s just good luck that I found out that Gumboc’s connected. If I knew Chet’s involvement—”

“José Martin, I don’t spy on people. I find it bizarre that you would ask me to.”

He chuckled to himself. “So you don’t want to speak against your own. I get it. But you could do some good. Don’t you want to be more than the aging beauty queen who comes back to Manila and then has Chet Rey following her around like a puppy dog?” He was teasing me.

“I’m actually fine with that,” I said. “I understand you’re chasing a story, so I’ll forgive your asking, because I’m sure there’s nothing there. When Eagle’s Nest reveals itself to be the hotel or nightclub or elite gambling circle that it most definitely is, I will let you know, so that you don’t lose sleep.”

José Martin hadn’t given up but knew now was not the time to press me. “Sige,” he said. “So your cousin . . .”

“Sort-of cousin,” I corrected him, “Laird Bontotot. Do you think I should be concerned?”

“What do you think? One minute he’s here; the next he’s gone. And last thing we know, he was headed for Marawi.”

“That’s news to me,” I said.

“I have to verify it,” said José Martin. “But that’s the rumor.”

And then I remembered. “I saw Laird talking to Rocco a few weeks ago. It was outside a bar in Rockwell. Do you think there’s a connection?”

José Martin was quiet for a moment. “Why was he meeting Rocco?”

“I think he wanted to write a story about infrastructure and the poor.”

“Which would be good for foreign investment in Basilang’s projects. He’s always trying to get coverage for his shit.”

This was true.

“Look, Ting, I have to go. I know your number and you know mine.” And then he rang off.

Eagle’s Nest sounded familiar, but it was probably nothing. Even the bit about Rocco’s emails could have been made up. José Martin was just digging, which is what journalists did, and was being opportunistic because I’d asked him a favor. I had heard Chet mention Eagle’s Nest on the phone, one of the calls that he took on the way out from whichever room I had happened to be standing in. But Chet didn’t tell me anything about his business dealings, which could have been all legal or all illegal but were likely some combination. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

A few days passed, but there was no news. Laird’s absence was becoming just another factor in our daily lives, another topic of conversation that we polished like a stone without effecting any change. I understood that Tita Remi was doing what she could, but the talk in my family centered on the absence of Laird’s family. Why were these people leaving the task of finding their son to his future in-laws? We concluded that Laird’s family probably didn’t have the money to buy plane tickets to the Philippines, which were close to two thousand dollars when purchased near time of travel. And maybe he had a pattern of disappearing. Maybe there was no reason to worry.

My phone rang then, and I hoped it was José Martin calling back, but it was Chet.

“I’m in the neighborhood,” he said.

“Are you outside the front door?”

“No,” said Chet. I heard the front door swing open. “You know what I want to eat?” he said.

I walked into the hallway, still carrying my phone, and rang off. Chet smiled. I was, for once, actually dressed in a decent pair of pants and a nice shirt. I was showered. “What?” I asked.

“I want steak.”

“Are you inviting me to lunch? Or are you just stating a fact?”

“Sure. Where should we go?”

“Do we have to go somewhere? Why don’t we just send Beng to the market to buy steaks? My aunt’s cook is good.”

Chet checked his watch. It was almost 11:00 a.m. “Too late for good steak at Kamuning. It will all be sold. I have an idea. We should go to Rockwell and convince my friend Tati to give me a tomahawk.”

Chet’s friend Tati owned one of the newly hip restaurants in Makati, and it was famed for its tomahawk steaks, which were pricey but also fed four people.

“So who’s going to cook it?”

“I am,” said Chet.

There was no one at the apartment. The maid and cook, who had been there the previous time I’d visited, had been called back to Chet’s house in Dasmariñas.

Chet said, “C. G. has something going on with her batch mates and asked to borrow them for the afternoon.” He set a cast-iron pan on the stove and the gas flared to life beneath it. His head cocked to one side and then the other. The steak rested in its paper on the countertop, a hefty chunk of glistening meat anchored to a plank of bone. He poured some corn oil into the pan and then olive oil. He watched as the oil heated.

“Aren’t you going to put the steak in?”

“Not yet.” Chet seemed amused. “Ting, don’t you know how to cook?”

“No.”

“How is that possible when you’ve been living in the States all this time?”

“I live in New York. And my husband can cook.”

Chet salted the steak heavily, flipped it, and then salted the other side.

“Chet?” I asked.

“What?”

“Are you involved in anything crazy?”

“Yeah. You.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He gave me a questioning look.

“It’s just, a journalist friend of mine was asking about you, some business deal . . . with Gumboc?”

Chet sighed, shaking his head. “Ting, I’m involved in all kinds of stuff. And you don’t need to know about it. And you know who really doesn’t need to know about it? Your journalist friend. But just so you know, I don’t have a business deal with Gumboc. But I make a point of keeping my dealings private. I never discuss my business, not with anyone, not even C. G. And we’ll never talk about this sort of thing, not because I like to keep things from you, but I have a reputation for keeping my business to myself and you know why?”

I knew the answer. “Because it keeps the people close to you safe.”

“That’s right. You don’t know, and that makes you useless to people who want to know.”

There was some wisdom in this.

Chet’s phone began ringing. He picked up immediately. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, yeah. Hold on—” He leveled a look at me and meeting it, bored, resigned, I left the kitchen. I heard him say, “I can’t go to Baguio until Tuesday.” And: “I don’t care who’s asking. If I can’t go, I can’t go. There’s stuff going on.”

In the living room, Chet had replaced the Ventura painting with the Alarcon, his choice.

From the kitchen I could hear the steak sizzling in the pan. The smell of frying meat, almost dizzying as it reminded me of my hunger, would better accompany the Ventura.

I placed a chair by the wall and took off my shoes. The painting was not heavy and once I’d managed to unhook the wire from which it hung, I could easily put it on the floor. I had replaced the Alarcon with the Ventura and was just about to step off the chair when I heard Chet, who must have abandoned the steak, clearing his throat dramatically. I looked at him from the chair.

“I was just—”

“I know what you’re doing,” he said.

“You can put the Alarcon back.”

“Why would I do that?” He walked over and extended his hand to help me, and I stepped down from the chair. His hand was shaking, an obvious tremor.

“Why are you shaking?”

“Why are your shoes off?”

“I didn’t want to get dirt on the chair.”

I thought to ask after the steak but couldn’t bring myself to. Chet was still holding my hand. He breathed deeply in his throat but didn’t move. I was losing track of time and wasn’t sure how to bring the moment to a close. I remembered what it was like to kiss him but then immediately doubted the memory. It was so very long ago and so many kisses had interrupted whatever had been shared between us. I wanted to say something funny, to call attention to the fact that all the blood was draining from my hand, that my shoulder was growing stiff. I thought I could draw his attention to the paintings, to talk about colonialism and brushstrokes and patricide. But I couldn’t speak. I wondered what emotional dependence on Chet had been developing inside of me, this inconvenient love that I had been refusing to acknowledge as anything but the sentimental crush of a bored woman. And then I felt as if I’d stepped beside myself. I witnessed my hand released from his, moving to his face, my other hand rising to mirror it, and then I was kissing Chet, not passionately, but with such excruciatingly slow determination that the gesture seemed to be a seal of Shakespearian proportion. I pulled back and finally, finding my voice, said, “The steak.”