IV

I sat at the dining table with Tita Dom and Tita Rosa, who had nodded off after the heavy meal. Tito Ben was stuck at the retirement center at Ateneo because, until we had the curfew completely figured out, it seemed unwise to bring him to New Manila for the weekly dinner. We thought we might have to reschedule for the weekend or for lunch, but everything was so new that no one really wanted to move.

Pictures of Laird were now circulating internationally. Two were in constant rotation. One was of him in the jungle surrounded by masked gunmen. The other was another taken at Jim’s house, this one with Cha Cha in the frame. She had been taken unaware, looking off to the side as she adjusted the front of her blouse. Laird was standing beside her, presenting himself in a formal way.

Jim was making phone calls to try to get the picture withdrawn. Couldn’t they just crop Cha Cha out?

“Ay naku,” said Tita Dom. “Cha Cha has become the cover girl of martial law.”

“This is not a joking matter,” said Tita Rosa. Her eyes remained closed, but even in a state of deep repose, she could still monitor our behavior.

“I’m not joking,” said Tita Dom. “But what can Jim do? The picture has already been sold to Reuters.”

“But why do they want Cha Cha in the picture?”

“The way that Rikki explains it is the picture implies that now Manila’s finest are also at risk. If Cha Cha’s relative can be kidnapped and beheaded, then no one is beyond reach. This has greased the way for martial law. There is still protest, but it’s muted. And you’ve read the news. Gumboc keeps reminding everyone of how his drug policies have reduced the presence of drug crime. And now he’s saying that if the politicians just let him have his moment, he’ll fix this problem too.”

“And if he killed off half the population in Manila, we would also have no traffic,” I said, dryly. “This is a nightmare.”

“Did you read about the LRT?”

“No,” I said. The Light Rail Transit, if it worked, would solve many of the traffic problems, but there weren’t enough trains running. The lines for the LRT at high traffic times were ridiculously long. And the trains often broke down. New tracks needed to be added, but with traffic the way it was, it was hard to see how to do it without bringing the entire city to a halt.

“He’s saying that the curfew is creating the opportunity to update the LRT. They can build it at night. Construction crews are already being hired. Didn’t you read the interview with Rocco Basilang? It was in the Philippine Telegraph this morning.” Tita Dom gave me a concerned look. “Don’t you think you should book a flight back to the States?”

I had thought about this and then dismissed it. I could not bring myself to leave. “I’m finishing my book.” I shrugged. “I can handle a curfew.”

“You should still get a ticket now,” she said. “Rikki says that flights to the States are full for the next two months.”

But in my mind, I had crossed the Rubicon. I had already begun to envision a life here, a life with my family. A life with Chet in the belly of the snake. And how could I leave when Inchoy needed me? He and I were headed to Baguio the following week. Martial law had initially dissuaded us, then made it seem as good a time as any to escape Manila. We had decided to stick to the plan that Bibo had arranged, although now we would celebrate Inchoy’s birthday in honor of Bibo’s life. In another circumstance, we would have scattered Bibo’s ashes, but in this Catholic country, ashes had not been an option. I wondered if we could do something with Bibo’s hairbrush, which I had been carrying around in my bag, strangely unwilling to part with it.

I hadn’t been to Baguio in years. In my college days, when all Manila’s finest fled the city and the heat at Easter time, I had stayed at Jim and Cha Cha’s ten-bedroom chalet, heading every night to the Goldmine Disco at the Hyatt. The Hyatt was a five-star hotel, an opulent standard, with a great echoing lobby and a glass-and-brass elevator that would shoot one to the heavens with dizzying speed. Or maybe I was just dizzy, since at that time and in that place I was reliably drunk. This is how we spent the days leading to Easter. I remembered appearing on the edge of the dance floor, still hungover from the previous evening, and Chet saying to me: “Ting is risen!”

Jim and Cha Cha’s house, perched on a ravine with broad verandahs and views into the pine-strewn slopes, had slid into the valley in the earthquake of 1990. Much of Baguio had been destroyed in the 7.7 temblor, including the Hyatt and the disco: the setting of so many White Russian–soaked nights reduced to beam and rubble. For weeks, recovery crews had pulled bodies from the site. I remembered that two people had been rescued after being trapped for eleven days, their survival a reason to praise God. Of course, this was the same God who had buried them alive.