PINATUBO Ch.12-Diosdado--Lion of Pampang

TWELVE

Diosdado--Lion of Pampanga

         I pull up into the parking lot of Sonny's Tavern on Johnny’s bike that he never rides, when a stray dog suddenly dashes out at me. I quickly squeeze the brake handles and come to an abrupt stop. I try to shoo the dog away but it merely stands transfixed, staring at me with a deathlike expression that makes me shiver. I get off the bike, gather a few small rocks and hurl them at the dog who scuttles away shrieking.

         What the devil is the matter with the animals lately, I mumble, remembering Malia’s dogs that howled relentlessly last night. And when did the roosters start crowing at two o'clock in the morning?

         I recognize Dado’s bicycle leaning alone against the side wall of the tavern. Grinning, I chain the two bikes together. Looking up at the sky, I remove my helmet and shake my head slightly, letting my hair fall about my shoulders then raking it with my fingers. I wipe the perspiration off my forehead with an oversize cotton handkerchief I keep tied around my neck. Why did I even put make-up on? The day has been oppressively hot again. How did I ever manage to survive the heat growing up in this torrid place, I wonder, feeling nostalgic for the winter in the States. As I take in the sunset's rosy hues, with pink and purple waves spreading above the mountain range, the beginning of twilight promises some relief from the heat.

         Sonny’s Tavern is located in Balibago, a suburb of Angeles City, just outside the U.S. Clark Air Force Base. It is one of the very few establishments in the area that has been salvaged from Pinatubo’s destruction. It has always been a popular place for the locals and the G.I.s, and from the looks of it, that popularity has not subsided, due perhaps to the fact that there aren’t many choices for people to mingle and forget for a few moments that life has not been the same since Pinatubo’s eruption.

         I look around and feel my heartstrings pulled by the sight all around me. I am at the heart of Angeles City’s former G.I. entertainment district, where rows of bars and discos promised to fulfill every U.S. soldier’s wild fantasies. This once flashy suburbia was an off-base housing, but the magnified dollar power had turned it into a red-light district, a place threaded in purple, fuschia, orange, red, yellow, criss-crossing the bars and honky tonks with panther grace. Yes, Angeles City was alive and gyrating to the rhythm of American servicemen with unholy madonnas in micro-mini skirts.

         And now, all of that is gone and what remains is merely a ghost town.

         "Are you just going to stay out here?" says the familiar voice—the voice that I’ve known so well since childhood.

         I turn around and see Dado approaching. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him. He wears a plaid cotton shirt that is open at the throat, the cuffs folded back. His five-eleven muscular physique and his half-American mestiso good looks still radiate sensuality. At thirty-six, the fascinating bones and angles in his face seem tougher; probably because of his tough job in the Military.

         "I was just admiring the changing colors in the sky," I say, remembering the old days when Dado and I would sit on a hill and watch the glorious orb sink behind the rim of the mountain range. We were so much in love.

         "You've always been a sucker for beautiful sunsets," he says, giving me an appraising glance. "You know, you can get arrested wearing that spandex suit. What do they feed you in the States anyway?"

         "Cheeseburgers and French fries," I say, feeling conscious of his gaze traveling thoughtfully over my face as I speak.

         "Welcome back, Frankie," he says grinning.

         To Dado, I will always be Frankie – the tomboyish girl with long braids and always a dirty face, often barefooted, and who grew up punching boys in the nose when provoked. Including him.

         "Good to see you, Dado de Leon—Lion of Pampanga."

         "Ahh . . . as you know, I don’t fit that symbol the media gave me. I’m more of a pussy cat than a lion."

         "Well, you’ll always be a pussy cat to me, but for the rest of the country, you will always be a lion. Even today, you’re Johnny’s favorite hero, you know."

         "He still can’t forget all the money I gave him and his brothers whenever I came to se you, huh?"

         "You were bad. You didn’t have to bribe them to see me. They loved you even without the fees."

         "It didn’t hurt, though. But I also did it for my personal pleasure. I loved watching them get all excited over the little money I tossed at them."

         "Well, I hope you didn’t bribe him this time."

         He darts me a flirty semi-furtive look. I welcome his arm around my shoulders by winding my own around his waist. He gives me a kiss on the cheek and immediately I feel that familiar heat that his touch always gave me.
         "It’s great to see you again," he says, squeezing my shoulder hard and sensually.

         "You, too."

         "Shall we go in? Sonny can’t wait to see you."

         A rush of nostalgia assails me when we venture inside the tavern. Sonny's place has always been more than a boisterous gathering place to me. It is an important part of my youth, a place embedded in layers of deeper meaning. It resonates love and friendship, camaraderie, and growing up. Even with all the damages from lahar, and the customers, which now consist mainly of Filipino locals, Sonny's Tavern has not changed much.

         I feel absorbed by the aura of charm and ambiance that pervade the room. The windows are covered with light-faded curtains, the hardwood floors shriek louder now at the lightest step, the scratched tables and shabby chairs could use some refinishing and repair, the high shelves are filled with dusty and tattered books and magazines, and the walls are peppered with constant rearranging of framed photographs, posters and political clippings. But I see not these material imperfections, but the strength, simplicity and sentiments of the past.

         I peruse the faded photographs on the wall. One large collage of photographs hangs precariously as if the hole has become too large for the nail to support the frame. Resisting the urge to straighten it, I view the pictures, wincing at my image without any makeup, looking so young and radical. The picture was taken with my friends outside the Malacanang Palace when I came back here to visit in early 1981. We carried placards and banners demanding political reforms from the authoritarian rule of Ferdinand Marcos. In another picture, Sonny, Dado and friends were picketing outside Clark against the renewal of the American bases. At the time, Sonny got most of his revenues from Clark’s business, and Dado at the time was working for Marcos who was pro-US Military presence. So, I never understood their motivations for wanting the US bases closed.

         Another handmade poster contains a collection of images of Benigno Aquino’s assassination that ignited the "People Power Revolution." I feel envious when I see the pictures of my friends witnessing the birth of a major historical event in the Philippines. I wish I had come home in 1983. I wish I could have joined my friends in welcoming Marcos’ worst nightmare--Benigno Aquino--who ended his self-imposed exile in the States to commence non-violent demonstrations against Marcos.

         The details of Aquino's fatal homecoming are still very clear in my mind as if I have actually witnessed everything: Aquino traveling with an illegal passport; a crowd of thousands waiting at the Manila airport to give him a hero's welcome and a military boarding party leading him out through a side door. Seconds later, shots ringing out. Pandemonium!

         "Aquino Shot To Death," was the headline on the front page of the Cincinnati Enquirer posted on the wall with a picture of Aquino lying face down on the tarmac. I sent the clippings to my family and relatives in the Philippines because the government-controlled media totally shut down the news and left the Filipino people little information except what could be pirated from foreign publications.

         "Mary! Good to see you again!" Sonny, the short and stubby owner of the tavern, yells excitedly from behind the bar, causing heads to turn.

         Dado and I hasten to the bar. The guys shake hands, and Sonny leans over the counter and kisses me on the cheek.

         Sonny serves each of us a beer. "For my favorite couple, it's San Miguel time," he decrees, referring to the locally-brewed beer. "It's on the house."

         I really don’t drink beer, or anything alcoholic. Sonny knows that. Everybody knows that. But it’s the thing to do at Sonny’s, and I enjoy socializing with the cold bottle in my hand and taking a small sip of the bitter beverage every now and then.

         I remember the first time I tasted beer . . . I was about nine. My father and his drinking buddies were having beers at the veranda of our house. I asked him what beer tasted like. He looked at me and handed me his beer. "Here," he said, "taste it so you can find out." I took a little sip, and immediately, I coughed it up, showering him in the face. "How can anyone drink that awful stuff?" I cried out, inciting spontaneous laughter among his friends. "And remember that for the rest of your life, my dear girl," my father said. "If you don’t like it, don’t do it."

         And here I am, many years later, still haven’t acquired a taste for the beloved beer.

         A mixture of sad rumination and hilarious camaraderie cheers Sonny’s place. But the mood starts to disintegrate as soon as the conversation shifts toward the American bases--a subject that has always rattled Dado.

         "I do not resent Americans. I'm against their foreign policy and their military presence in this country," Dado equivocates, reminiscent of the impassioned anti-American college student he once was. "As long as the American bases exist in this country, the Filipinos will never outgrow their colonial mentality. It has a certain psychological effect on our people in the sense that it is deeply embedded into our culture--that we are a country that cannot stand on our own two feet."

         "I seriously don't think the Americans were exploiting the Filipinos," I argue in a flat and resolute voice. "And if we're true, it's our fault for letting it happen. "

         Silence hangs over us for a long moment. Sonny excuses himself and tends to the other customers.

         "I believe the nationalists are going to win and force the bases out of the country," Dado argues.

         "I have news for you," I say firmly. "The treaty has expired, and the bases, I’ve heard, are beyond repair, so they’re probably not going to be reopened. Mount Pinatubo beat you and your nationalist friends to it. Anyway, whether you like it or not, the Philippines is no longer vital to U.S. defense policy as it once was when the Soviet Union was still a threat to the Pacific region. The Americans are going to leave, no matter what. Still, I hope they reopen, because I pity the thousands of Filipinos employed by these bases. The U.S. contributes more than $600 million dollars a year into the lethargic Philippine economy, and the towns around them depend almost entirely on these bases."

         A smirk twists Dado's lips. "Ten thousand unemployed Base employees will not make much difference in a country whose population is well over 50 million, most of it existing on poverty level."

         "Hold it you two," Sonny reprimands, throwing up his arms. "As much as I enjoy your famous arguments, I think this is a moment of celebration, not political debates." He turns to his customers and directs them to sing Auld Lang Syne. "All right, everybody! Let’s raise our beers and welcome our beautiful prodigal child, and sing!"

         Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
         and never brought to mind ?
         Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
         and auld lang syne?
         Dado takes my hand and squeezes it. "I’m sorry," he says. "I’m such a brute."

         "It’s all right. It’s always nice to see such passion in you."

         For auld lang syne, my dear,
         for auld lang syne,
         we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
         for auld lang syne.
         And surely you’ll be your pint-stoup!
         And surely I’ll be mine!
         And we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
         for auld lang syne.

         Genuflecting to the crowd, I give them my appreciation. Thank you, thank you. Now, the beers are on me. Sonny . . . another round for everyone, please."

         The herd cheers.

         "Mom says Hi to you," Dado says, seeming calm again.

         I smile. I’ve always loved his Mom. "How’s your mother doing?"

         "She’s fine. She’s living with me now."

         "It must be hard for her to see Clark close like that. How long did she work there? Fifteen? Twenty years?"

         "My mother would be better off without Americans always hanging around her," he says, looking down at his beer as if it’s his only friend who can understand him.

         I realize that Dado will never get over his animosity toward the Americans. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and tell him that it is all right to be a bastard son. Yes, he was ostracized because of it. He was an outcast in his youth. His mother will always be labeled as a puta or a whore for having a son by a U.S. soldier who never came back for them, but none of that matters to me, nor to all his friends, and to all those who admire him. He is a national hero. He almost single-handedly captured high-ranking communist rebels and Muslim terrorists in the country. Still, it torments him, and it breaks my heart to see him this way.

         "When are you ever going to forgive your mother for what happened, Dado? Personally, I don't think there's anything to forgive. Just look how successful and respected you turned out to be. You must stop being so resentful and vindictive. This city is full of abandoned Amerasian children. And you tower over all of them. Not just in physique, but in character as well."

         Dado draws a steadying breath and takes a sip of his beer.

         "Thank you. But I'm not going to apologize for my feelings and my opinions." He moves closer to me as if wanting to put his arms around me. "But I'm sorry for making you upset again. I guess we were born to argue with each other."

         "I think you’re upset about something else. It's not just the difference in our political views, it's something more personal."

         He releases a deep sigh. "You're right, Mary. I resent my mother for bringing me into this world without my father even knowing I exist. I hate all the American soldiers who left behind illegitimate children like me. And I hate America for taking you away from me."

         There...he finally said it, I say to myself. "America did not take me away from you, Dado. It was my choice to go there."

         "And marry an American," he snaps.

         Sonny comes to my immediate rescue upon hearing Dado’s remark.

         "Hey, Mary," he calls loudly. "I’m having a fundraising event here next Sunday. I hope you come."

         "Sure," I respond without any hesitation. "What’s the fund-raising for?"

         "To erect a small memorial for the family of the Balikbayan nurse. Have you heard of the story?"

         "Rosario? The song about the tragedy?"

         "Yeah, so you’ve heard of it."

         "My brother told me the story. It’s so sad. Is she going to be attending the event?"

         "Well, that’s going to be a problem. You see . . . we can never find her. There are occasional sightings of her, but nobody knows where she’s staying."

         Sonny turns to Dado with brightened eyes. "Hey, buddy. You know how to haunt people; do you think you can find this woman?"

         Dado’s expression resembles that of Johnny’s when we were discussing the same matter. I give him a quizzical gaze.

         "I’ll try," Dado says noncommittally.

         "Great!" exclaims Sonny, although he, too, looked surprised at Dado’s cold response.

         "Are you coming to this party?" I ask Dado.

         "I’m not sure," he says, which I find interesting. I thought he would jump at the chance of being with me again. But why should I assume that he is at my beck and call? Who am I to be so presumptuous? He is a very busy man. He leads a dangerous life by protecting the country from the bad guys. After all, isn’t that the reason I did not marry him? He could never belong to me. He belongs to his country.

         And men like him . . . don’t live very long.

         "Well, I hope you do." After a while, I get off the bar stool and whisper to him: "I’m going outside to get some fresh air."

         "Still allergic to cigarette smoke?"

         "Yes."

         "May I join you in a moment?"

         "Please."

         "Okay, I’ll be right there."

         A few minutes later, Dado finds me in the parking lot on my knees, my palms flat on the ground, and my head tilting sideways as if eavesdropping.

         "Mary, is anything wr--"

         "Ssshhhhh," I interrupt, raising my arm to silence him. I lower my head further until my right ear is almost touching the ground. A second or two later, I get up on my feet, rubbing the sand off my hands. "It's very strange," I say in a thoughtful frown. "The air is too still and sultry. And I thought I heard a roaring sound coming from underneath the earth ... like it's breathing or something."

         Dado smiles. "This is the Philippines, remember? The ground breathes every now and then."

         Suddenly the ground shakes underfoot, followed by a groaning noise that seems to originate from the mountains -- a familiar sensation. I remember the unusual animal behavior, the roaring from underneath the earth and the calm, oppressive air -- all ominous signs of imminent geological danger.

         "Earthquake!" I scream, feeling my heart thud against my rib cage.

         Dado pulls me gently into his arms. "It's all right, Mary. It's just a minor tremor. It will be over soon," he says stoically. "We’ve been getting a lot of these since Mount Pinatubo erupted. It’s going to quiet down soon. "

         I feel embarrassed. In the Philippines, which is part of the `Ring of Fire' a perceptible quake occurs every day, with or without Mount Pinatubo’s eruption.

         "I’m sorry. I guess I've been away too long," I say, rediscovering the delicious comfort of Dado’s embrace, and feeling guilty at the same time. I am married, after all.

         I wonder if Dado is going to ask to me to stay again, like he has always done everytime I came back. I wonder if he is going to ask me to divorce Rob and marry him. I love Dado, and will always love him, but I also love Rob, and I will try everything to save our marriage.

         "You look like you’re a thousand miles away," Dado says.

         "Hmm. Not so far away. I’m just troubled by something."

         "Me?"

         "No." I lie. "I was just wondering why you don’t want to find Rosario and bring her to the party."

         His forehead furrows at the unexpected inquiry. "What makes you think I don’t?"

         "Just a hunch."

         He turns his gaze away from my face and inhales a deep breath then looks at me again – that same look that Johnny gave me when he came to my classroom that day they found my father’s body.

         "Have you talked about this to your siblings?" he asks.

         "Why? What’s Rosario’s connection to my family?" My heart is suddenly beating fast now. "Tell me please."

         "Mary, I. . ."

         By nature’s design, Dado is saved from doing what he doesn’t want to do: to divulge a secret so huge everybody’s afraid to tell me. Pinatubo stops him by rumbling, followed by a sound resembling a cannon fire rolling over the town. Then the ground shakes again, this time more violently, causing us to stumble and fall. I scream. Dado flings himself beside me, pulling me against him.

         It’s not just another earthquake. Mount Pinatubo, is acting up again.

(End of Chapter Twelve)

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