miyako73
12-23-2012, 01:28 PM
After checking out every room, every alcove, every corner of the house, Martin took me to his room, the only place we had not gone in, while my brother and my sisters in the basement amused themselves with Mr. Lim’s fifty-inch Japanese-made television set that came with a video player for VHS tapes better than what we had that played Betamax. The air-conditioned entertainment area was carpeted and soundproofed, furnished with complete audio and multimedia systems and other new high-end gadgets he ordered from Singapore, and outfitted with brown leather-covered seats, side-tables made of polished steel, a soda cooler, and a popcorn machine. Bart Simpson just pulled his shorts and bared his buttocks when we left them riotously laughing.
I did not know Martin had the temperament of a minimalist. His room would totally look empty without the double-size wooden bed, the mattress their house maid covered with bed sheets a shade darker than ecru, the two matching white-covered pillows, the folded brown-and-cream plaid blanket lying idly by the footboard, the study table and chair occupying the corner near the glass window that framed the thick foliage of the acacia tree outside, and the wall-mounted study lamp that could be moved to any direction.
Martin sat on the floor, crossing his legs like a Buddhist monk on a meditation mat. I comfortably settled on his bed, facing him, my feet resting on the floor. Feeling awkward, I waited for him to speak first.
“Sorry…I should've apologized… as soon as I saw you… but they're around.” His words came out shy than ambivalent. The tone of his voice, slightly hoarse from the early onset of puberty, did not have his old angry pitch. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“No need,” I said. “We were kids then.”
“I was cruel to you though.”
“But I understood what you went through that time.”
“You’re right, and thanks for that.”
“I’m curious. Do you still think I am what you thought I was before?”
“Oh, no. Look at you. You can wrestle me easily.”
“You’re kidding. I’m shorter than you, and you’re bigger.”
“Look.” He put his fingers around his wrist just below his black digital watch. “We almost have the same bone size.”
“I think you’re being nice,” I said
“I have been since I left St. Mary’s.”
“I heard.”
“Where did you hear it from?”
“From your father.”
“Oh, Daddy told you,” he said, with a whiff of resentment that puzzled me.
I probed his face: his jaw, cheek, and brow bones looked chiseled like smooth outlines of his profile; his lips still had the shape of a bow but had matured into rusty red—he must have started smoking in secret already; above them was a sparse growth of hair, an early sign of a moustache; his proud nose still had its prominent angle that did not dominate—it had faint tiny dots of freckles though; and his squinting eyes were lazier like they did not care. He could still be in a movie in the future, I thought, a half Chinese-half Filipino leading man dazzling ladies.
“I heard you’re going to Science High,” I said, while he suddenly got the urge to stare at the ceiling as if its color was unusually white.
He looked at me with a furrowed forehead. “I’ll guess. You also heard that from Daddy.” He shook his head like he could not believe it.
“I won’t tell you,” I said as I shook my head too.
Yes, he was right. Mr. Lim told my father, and I overheard it. When Martin did something that sounded good to his father’s ears, everyone would know it. Mr. Lim would use it to start a conversation with his friends. I could not really tell if he was proud of his son. I thought he liked using his son when he showed off in a pissing contest among Hokkien-speaking parents who compared their children’s achievements. I was glad the only Chinese in our household was a bundle of metal chopsticks my mother used to fork the bun of her hair.
“He has been forcing me to enroll there, but I don’t want to be a scientist, an engineer, or a mathematician,” Martin said.
“What do you want to do then in the future?” I asked.
“Maybe a cartoonist or a painter.”
“I’ve always wanted to paint, but I just can’t hold the brush straight.”
“You still write stories?” he asked.
“I do. That’s why I’m going to DAHS.”
“The art high school?”
“Yes.”
“Good for you. You can do what you want.”
“You can, too, if you really want to do it,” I said, hoping I would not sound like a counselor and come off as if experienced and know-it-all.
The aroma of Mr. Lim’s lechon entered the room. He must have cut its overcooked belly using his favorite clever his relatives sent from Fujian, and its fatty juice must have leaked all over the chopping board. Martin and I went downstairs to join everyone who was waiting for a piece of roasted pig. His father proudly manned the table and noisily served his guests, his spit showering as he invited everyone to have more. My sisters, who would not take a bite, joked that his Dunhill spit seemed to be the culinary secret. My brother did not care since the pork meat was still steaming hot. I had never craved for Mr. Lim’s lechon again after that, and Martin and I had not seen each other until his third year at Science High.
Junior Chemistry and Physics proved to be Martin’s weaknesses. He would rather draw those atoms and molecules than read thick chapters that explained them in details. Instead of studying Einstein’s theories and memorizing his formulas, he did his portrait, the one in which he stuck his tongue out. Martin finished it in minutes and from memory; he was such a genius in drawing. Lost in between science and arts and confused what to do with his life, he dropped out without telling anyone, stayed in his room, and drew. Mr. Lim did not really care because all his attention went to Mara, his kept woman whom he met at a gentleman’s club where she gyrated around the pole for tips and he had been supporting financially for more than two years already. He sent her to a business college, bought her a Mitsubishi car, and let her move into his house. Mara, who was too young and irresistible to be a mother to him, could also be one of the reasons why Martin locked himself inside his room. It could not be depression; he still played himself under his stain-dotted blanket. How did I know? He told me everything when we started hanging out later on. What he really wanted was to focus on becoming an artist, besides lusting for his unofficial stepmother.
Martin knew Mara only wanted money from his balding father who had aged horribly—his face wrinkled like a crumpled paper; its skin sagged leaving his cheeks hollow; its pores from hairline to chin and ear to ear opened resembling the rough surface of a lemon; his face, in short, looked like it was hit by a car and everything on it was hurriedly put together on the wrong places. Only a doting mother could adoringly stare at a face like Mr. Lim’s, but that did not bother Mara, who called him DOM—dirty old man—when she talked about him to her friends. Martin overheard her say the word sugar daddies did not want to hear when she chatted with someone on the phone. Sensing an opportunity, he recorded and threatened her that he would tell his father. Mr. Lim hated only one thing, and that was being talk about behind his back. He thought of it as being disrespected and dishonored, and he could stain his hands with blood for respect and because of honor. Mara did not want to lose all the privileges she got from his father, so she gave what Martin asked—money, jewelries, and her body—for him to shut up.
So, when Martin asked her to convince his father to allow him to transfer to DAHS, she did, and Mr. Lim relented to what his son wanted. “You cannot force a farmer to fish,” he said to her. Martin’s father thought of Mara’s intervention as motherly, and he began entertaining the idea that maybe she was a wife material.
It was at DAHS where Martin and I became friends, real friends. When I needed help for my painting projects, I called him. When he had writing assignments, he came to me. He had no other best friends, and I also had none other than him. I would sleep over at their place, and he would at ours. He used my toothbrush once when he forgot to bring his. I wore his cotton underwear when mine got wet from a Coke spill. We were that close. Very close.
A lot happened in our senior year. Martin told me about Mara’s infidelity and crime—statutory rape because he was only fifteen when they started having a sexual relationship. Well, it was not really a relationship. I did not think affection could blossom from blackmail. Mara was scared rather than amorous every time she had it with Martin. Even if what she did was a crime, no cop would ever waste his time on the carnal exploits of horny teens. Agog twelve-year-olds in the city would pay prostitutes to train them how to hump. They then boasted to their friends that they were no longer virgins and that they were oversexed. Martin must have felt lucky to have easy, free, and unlimited access to a warm flesh, but he never bragged about his liaison with Mara. When he told me, I felt he broke my heart, but there was nothing between us but friendship. It felt strange. His confession that night made me drain the entire bottle of stolen Jack Daniel’s into my gut and write the weirdest essay I had ever written.
I did not know Martin had the temperament of a minimalist. His room would totally look empty without the double-size wooden bed, the mattress their house maid covered with bed sheets a shade darker than ecru, the two matching white-covered pillows, the folded brown-and-cream plaid blanket lying idly by the footboard, the study table and chair occupying the corner near the glass window that framed the thick foliage of the acacia tree outside, and the wall-mounted study lamp that could be moved to any direction.
Martin sat on the floor, crossing his legs like a Buddhist monk on a meditation mat. I comfortably settled on his bed, facing him, my feet resting on the floor. Feeling awkward, I waited for him to speak first.
“Sorry…I should've apologized… as soon as I saw you… but they're around.” His words came out shy than ambivalent. The tone of his voice, slightly hoarse from the early onset of puberty, did not have his old angry pitch. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“No need,” I said. “We were kids then.”
“I was cruel to you though.”
“But I understood what you went through that time.”
“You’re right, and thanks for that.”
“I’m curious. Do you still think I am what you thought I was before?”
“Oh, no. Look at you. You can wrestle me easily.”
“You’re kidding. I’m shorter than you, and you’re bigger.”
“Look.” He put his fingers around his wrist just below his black digital watch. “We almost have the same bone size.”
“I think you’re being nice,” I said
“I have been since I left St. Mary’s.”
“I heard.”
“Where did you hear it from?”
“From your father.”
“Oh, Daddy told you,” he said, with a whiff of resentment that puzzled me.
I probed his face: his jaw, cheek, and brow bones looked chiseled like smooth outlines of his profile; his lips still had the shape of a bow but had matured into rusty red—he must have started smoking in secret already; above them was a sparse growth of hair, an early sign of a moustache; his proud nose still had its prominent angle that did not dominate—it had faint tiny dots of freckles though; and his squinting eyes were lazier like they did not care. He could still be in a movie in the future, I thought, a half Chinese-half Filipino leading man dazzling ladies.
“I heard you’re going to Science High,” I said, while he suddenly got the urge to stare at the ceiling as if its color was unusually white.
He looked at me with a furrowed forehead. “I’ll guess. You also heard that from Daddy.” He shook his head like he could not believe it.
“I won’t tell you,” I said as I shook my head too.
Yes, he was right. Mr. Lim told my father, and I overheard it. When Martin did something that sounded good to his father’s ears, everyone would know it. Mr. Lim would use it to start a conversation with his friends. I could not really tell if he was proud of his son. I thought he liked using his son when he showed off in a pissing contest among Hokkien-speaking parents who compared their children’s achievements. I was glad the only Chinese in our household was a bundle of metal chopsticks my mother used to fork the bun of her hair.
“He has been forcing me to enroll there, but I don’t want to be a scientist, an engineer, or a mathematician,” Martin said.
“What do you want to do then in the future?” I asked.
“Maybe a cartoonist or a painter.”
“I’ve always wanted to paint, but I just can’t hold the brush straight.”
“You still write stories?” he asked.
“I do. That’s why I’m going to DAHS.”
“The art high school?”
“Yes.”
“Good for you. You can do what you want.”
“You can, too, if you really want to do it,” I said, hoping I would not sound like a counselor and come off as if experienced and know-it-all.
The aroma of Mr. Lim’s lechon entered the room. He must have cut its overcooked belly using his favorite clever his relatives sent from Fujian, and its fatty juice must have leaked all over the chopping board. Martin and I went downstairs to join everyone who was waiting for a piece of roasted pig. His father proudly manned the table and noisily served his guests, his spit showering as he invited everyone to have more. My sisters, who would not take a bite, joked that his Dunhill spit seemed to be the culinary secret. My brother did not care since the pork meat was still steaming hot. I had never craved for Mr. Lim’s lechon again after that, and Martin and I had not seen each other until his third year at Science High.
Junior Chemistry and Physics proved to be Martin’s weaknesses. He would rather draw those atoms and molecules than read thick chapters that explained them in details. Instead of studying Einstein’s theories and memorizing his formulas, he did his portrait, the one in which he stuck his tongue out. Martin finished it in minutes and from memory; he was such a genius in drawing. Lost in between science and arts and confused what to do with his life, he dropped out without telling anyone, stayed in his room, and drew. Mr. Lim did not really care because all his attention went to Mara, his kept woman whom he met at a gentleman’s club where she gyrated around the pole for tips and he had been supporting financially for more than two years already. He sent her to a business college, bought her a Mitsubishi car, and let her move into his house. Mara, who was too young and irresistible to be a mother to him, could also be one of the reasons why Martin locked himself inside his room. It could not be depression; he still played himself under his stain-dotted blanket. How did I know? He told me everything when we started hanging out later on. What he really wanted was to focus on becoming an artist, besides lusting for his unofficial stepmother.
Martin knew Mara only wanted money from his balding father who had aged horribly—his face wrinkled like a crumpled paper; its skin sagged leaving his cheeks hollow; its pores from hairline to chin and ear to ear opened resembling the rough surface of a lemon; his face, in short, looked like it was hit by a car and everything on it was hurriedly put together on the wrong places. Only a doting mother could adoringly stare at a face like Mr. Lim’s, but that did not bother Mara, who called him DOM—dirty old man—when she talked about him to her friends. Martin overheard her say the word sugar daddies did not want to hear when she chatted with someone on the phone. Sensing an opportunity, he recorded and threatened her that he would tell his father. Mr. Lim hated only one thing, and that was being talk about behind his back. He thought of it as being disrespected and dishonored, and he could stain his hands with blood for respect and because of honor. Mara did not want to lose all the privileges she got from his father, so she gave what Martin asked—money, jewelries, and her body—for him to shut up.
So, when Martin asked her to convince his father to allow him to transfer to DAHS, she did, and Mr. Lim relented to what his son wanted. “You cannot force a farmer to fish,” he said to her. Martin’s father thought of Mara’s intervention as motherly, and he began entertaining the idea that maybe she was a wife material.
It was at DAHS where Martin and I became friends, real friends. When I needed help for my painting projects, I called him. When he had writing assignments, he came to me. He had no other best friends, and I also had none other than him. I would sleep over at their place, and he would at ours. He used my toothbrush once when he forgot to bring his. I wore his cotton underwear when mine got wet from a Coke spill. We were that close. Very close.
A lot happened in our senior year. Martin told me about Mara’s infidelity and crime—statutory rape because he was only fifteen when they started having a sexual relationship. Well, it was not really a relationship. I did not think affection could blossom from blackmail. Mara was scared rather than amorous every time she had it with Martin. Even if what she did was a crime, no cop would ever waste his time on the carnal exploits of horny teens. Agog twelve-year-olds in the city would pay prostitutes to train them how to hump. They then boasted to their friends that they were no longer virgins and that they were oversexed. Martin must have felt lucky to have easy, free, and unlimited access to a warm flesh, but he never bragged about his liaison with Mara. When he told me, I felt he broke my heart, but there was nothing between us but friendship. It felt strange. His confession that night made me drain the entire bottle of stolen Jack Daniel’s into my gut and write the weirdest essay I had ever written.