The Irony of Reality

HE was one notable friend who had made me feel special – special in the sense that not a lot of people in this whole wide world have a rocket scientist for a friend. Yes, he is a rocket scientist, the kind that we all want to make jokes about in order to justify our less-than-genius IQ.

He – let’s call him Bud – doesn’t look like a stereotyped egghead, say, like Einstein. He’s even nowhere near, in looks and eccentricity, Doc Brown (Christopher Lloyd) of the Back to the Future films. Bud looks like a regular guy, maybe more attractive than others because he is, after all, a rocket scientist; no airs, no looking down his nose attitude. He cracks jokes: some are outrageously funny, a few ridiculously corny. He could be sarcastic without the other person knowing he was being such; he could also give a wee lecture on propulsion using layman’s language (but still, my less-than-genius IQ could not grasp its principle).

We have lost contact for years, and then one day, early this year, I dropped him a line and asked how he was doing. This – sending him an email – was not done on impulse. Twice, I woke up knowing that Bud was in my dream; only, I had no idea what the dream was about. I just knew he was in the dream. It took me over a week before I managed to write him a short note. Turned out, he wasn’t doing well; in fact, he was very ill: he had cancer. He was fighting for his life, and he was scheduled for a major, major surgery after a few other previous recent surgeries. It was unnerving.

Bud was on the operating table for nearly 30 hours with a team of specialists; I wasn’t there but I could imagine it was touch-and-go. The surgery was successful, his life is saved. Of course, he knew before the procedure that his life will be changed forever after surgery. Among those changes – he could no longer speak. And to think I was the last person – besides his family – who he spoke to, on the phone, a few hours before the surgery. He also could no longer eat solid food or drink any liquid for the rest of his life. Tough, tough, tough.

However, I did not immediately learn if the surgery went well. It took a few days before I heard a couple of times from his colleague at work that yes, he was conscious a day after surgery. Conscious – but will he live? I did not have the courage to ask. When I did not hear from my rocket scientist friend again after two months, I looked, online, for the obituary pages of his local paper. It was unsettling, to be sure, but I had to know.

When I heard from him again through email, he was cheerful and upbeat. I could imagine he was like that with his son and siblings – smiling and assuring them that all is well, that he will write that book on surviving cancer, that he will, perhaps next year, climb Mt. Shasta, and enjoy nature like he has enjoyed it before; and that he will get back to his much-delayed project, putting up a taller wall in his property to guard against forest fire. His passion for life and living is amazing that I feel guilty sometimes when I’m feeling down.

But for all of Bud’s bravado, and while I admire his resilience, I realized just how ironic life could be at times. His very words echo this irony:

… the radiation took its toll… I hope to God we never have a nuclear war with anyone even though I spent a lifetime developing rockets to deliver such a terrible weapon…

Hearts of (a few) Men, Part 2

Sans Expectations

IF there was one person whose love story had left a deep mark upon my core beliefs in life, then that would easily be Aaron. He had a heart bigger than John’s (please see previous post); ironically, this same big heart had caused a huge vacuum in Aaron’s spirit. I still carried with me the thought of his new-found credo, a credo that no-one, in my opinion, should subscribe to. But Aaron does, and who could blame him…?

AARON was a tall, physically fit, slightly balding, but strikingly handsome Englishman who just turned 50-years old. He was a solicitor from London who decided to retire from his profession immediately after his divorce. He thought, at the time, that he’d had enough of being a lawyer in a city known for its perpetual damp and dreary weather. With his lifetime savings plus the money he got from his ex-wife who bought out his share of their beautiful home, he flew to the Philippines to turn over a new leaf.

Starting life anew, for Aaron, meant investing in a business he knew nothing about. He was, for the most part, encouraged by his pals, three in all, living in the Philippines. Two of these pals, Kyle and Dude, were multinational executives assigned in Makati; the other one, Brent, a former law school classmate, had made the Philippines his second home.

Brent was also a Brit, twice-divorced, from a well-off family who’d rather “pay” him just so he’d stay away from England. Aaron’s best pal, Brent, was the black sheep of the family and as such, a constant source of embarrassment for the stiff-upper-lipped clan. Through Brent, Aaron met Emmalyn. She was Brent’s Filipina girlfriend.

Emmalyn was in the local real estate business. When Brent took her to London once for a month of rest and recreation, they met Aaron many times for dinners, drinks, and gabbing. As Aaron was in the final year of settling his marital dissolution – and very depressed and confused – the smooth-talking Emmalyn managed to earn Aaron’s admiration and trust. He thought how lucky his pal was to have hooked up with a smart woman. In conjunction with Kyle and Dude’s persuasive tales of the nonstop sun and fun Aaron could have in the Philippines, the wily Emmalyn goaded Aaron to invest in her most ambitious project, that of land and subdivision developing.

When Aaron flew to the Philippines, he thought he’d never return to England again except for brief visits. He sold all his assets, from stocks to his car; even his law books! He burned his bridges in his homeland as he imagined the good life he would have in a developing country.

Aaron sunk in all his money, a little over £1,000,000 (over P80-million pesos as per the current exchange rate at the time), to finance Harmony Homes (not the real name of the company, like all the names of the people here have been changed as well). And as the paperwork for Harmony Homes were being prepared with Emmalyn fronting as the majority partner, Aaron had the time of his life.

Goodtime Girls Galore

AND he did have the time of his life!

Aaron, accompanied by his pals, became a regular patron in the clubs and bars in Makati. He could not believe how easily the guest relations officers (GROs, euphemism, of course, for sex workers / bar girls) did fall in-love with him. Aaron felt absolutely loved when he, even without the company of his compatriots, had cruised the clubs in Makati and all the working girls – those without customers to entertain – flocked to him as he entered the threshold, as feathers to tar. It had not occurred to him that buying for them a ladies drink or two, at P450 a pop, was what made him popular and lovable (the word ‘sucker’ did not enter his mind). But when he met 23-year old Charmaine, the ‘star’ GRO in his favorite club, Aaron suddenly stopped bar-fining / bedding the goodtime girl of his choice for the night, every night, week in, week out. He had found the most attractive lady of the night, one who could satisfy his amorous and erotic needs.

After paying a huge bar fine for Charmaine, he took her away from the club scene. They beach-hopped for six weeks. They had fun and sun – from Boracay to Palawan, from Bohol to Davao, from Guimaras to Boracay again.

Returning from their holiday, Aaron did not allow Charmaine to go back to work as GRO. He wanted her to continue her college studies. She agreed, but with conditions. First, she did not want to move in his Ayala Alabang condominium unit. She said it would break her parents’ heart if she lived-in with a guy, especially a foreigner. She said that Aaron must also support her family as she was the breadwinner while she went back to school; she could only spend the entire weekend with him if she was to concentrate on her studies.

Aaron could not say yes, yes, yes, oh, damn yes! fast enough. He was, to say the least, under Charmaine’s thumb.

Pizza, TV, Sex, Sex, TV, Pizza

AT first, Aaron thought that such an arrangement with Charmaine was neat. While she was in school during the day on weekdays, he could, at the same time, focus on work and business. In the evening, while she did her schoolwork, he could join his pals as they cruise their favorite nightspots in Makati. So, that’s what he did.

Reality, however, started to sink in as Aaron found more time for business. He discovered what every investor in the Philippines, foreign or local, finds: the labyrinthine business documentation process. The process – too innumerable to mention – was so slow it was like watching a young coconut peel its husk itself. Even when he gave Emmalyn the go-signal to grease the necessary palms – and there were quite a number of them especially in the government licensing divisions – the progress of Harmony Homes moved tediously.

With all those issues swirling in his head from Monday to Friday, Aaron, naturally, shared his concerns with Charmaine. He thought he could get some form of input from her. But he thought wrong. Not only did she give him a blank expression as he outlined the outrageously slow progress of putting up the business, she also drowned out his complaints against Philippine bureaucracy with her favorite telenovela!

Aaron tried to justify Charmaine’s attitude. She was young and perhaps a bit immature. She had no interest in any kind of business; or perhaps she had no interest at all in anything he said? Once or twice, she had made a comment so stupid that he chose to ignore it. But then, he thought about it later. Charmaine was a college student, not a high school freshman. As such, he said to himself, she must have some sense of what was going on in her country. Then he paused, eyebrows knitted, and thought about Charmaine’s course. A four-year secretarial course! In Great Britain, secretarial skills were taught in three months. Aaron could only shake his head; he downed the single measure of Scotch whisky he had poured for himself and took a deep sigh.

Eventually, his excitement over weekends with Charmaine had become less and less intense. It had become routine; a routine of sex, TV and pizza. Since neither of them knew how to cook, they depended on home-delivered fast food, pizza being their common choice. As for TV, while he recoup his strength from their bedroom acrobatics, she watched local shows – and with boisterous emotions. She rooted and hooted loudly, as if watching a live ball game, while watching noontime shows, game shows, telenovela, even gossip shows. Aaron began dreaming of his previous sane existence in London with its famous dismal and dreary weather.

And then he met Ginette.

“A Filipino Woman Like No Other”

IT was through Ginette that I learned about Aaron’s circumstance. She was pretty, petite, smart; a youthful-looking widow who was three years younger than him. She owned a few businesses, all small ventures but consistently in the black over the past few years. Ginette and Aaron met in her office at the Makati business district. She was scheduled to transfer her office in Ortigas Center; he was sizing up Ginette’s office as possible location for Harmony Homes' main office.

Little sparks, although very subtle, flew during their initial meeting. They had lunch that day; midday coffee the next, lunch again the day after that. They were certainly headed to have dinner and breakfast together if only Aaron could cancel and reschedule his flight back to London. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, really, he could not forgo his trip. It was business-related. He needed to raise money in England because his business venture in the “land of nonstop fun and sun” was bleeding his blood dry.

During the 15 days that he was on the other side of the globe, he kept constant touch with Ginette. He was so infatuated with her. He could not believe, as in could not really believe, that there is a Filipino woman who possessed so much knowledge, info, and wit between her ears. Aaron thought that the country’s female population was represented by the likes of "empty-headed" Charmaine and her colleagues, and money-grasping Emmalyn and her female office staff (all, one way or the other, relatives of Emmalyn).

It was also during Aaron’s absence that Ginette learned all about Charmaine.

Widow’s Ego

“SO,” I said to Ginette, “tell me.”

“I don’t know where to start,” she said as she took away her dark glasses and exposed the lack of sleep in her eyes, “I was shocked when he confessed about his girlfriend last night.”

Aaron had been calling Ginette, night after night, for hours on end, from London. His call must be costing him a small fortune but he needed, obviously, to connect with Ginette.

“You’re apparently smitten by him.” I smiled. “Even your office staff can tell.”

Ginette managed a smile but she looked at the door of her private office to check if it was shut tightly against eavesdroppers. “He wanted to be my boyfriend.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes but on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“He will have to break up first with this young girl, that’s all.”

“What did he say?”

“Yes, he was for it. He said weekends of sex, TV and pizza no longer had any appeal to him. He wanted someone with whom he could discuss serious stuff.”

“Also someone who could give him free advice with regards to the ins and outs of doing business in the Philippines, right?” I said, a bit cheekily. “Or someone who could lead him into the right circle of people to facilitate the solutions to his business woes?”

Ginette laughed. “Don’t forget: someone who cooks well and only watches the news and the stock market channels.”

“Are you serious, Ginette, about this Englishman? You’ve only just met him!”

“It was you, as I recall, who advised me to give love another try?” She was obviously on cloud nine. “So, I will give it a try. It isn’t every day that a lonely widow like me gets to meet a gorgeous-looking – ”

“He’s bald.”

Ginette laughed again. “Just slightly balding, which was becoming. Gives him character.”

I stopped making comments. I hated deflating anyone’s ego, Ginette’s especially. It was clear that the extra sparkle in her eyes was due to Aaron’s amorous attention. So if she was happy, then good on her. We parted, Ginette and I, with her in high spirits. She was counting the days when Aaron would be back in Manila, out of Charmaine’s arms, and into Ginette’s.

Trophy Girlfriend - Not

AARON had suggested to Ginette that she pick him up at the airport when he returned to the country. She declined. She reminded him of their agreement, that they would only meet again after he has broken up with “the girl,” as Ginette liked to refer to his girlfriend.

He arrived safely, called Ginette from the airport as soon as his plane landed, and called her again as soon as he arrived in his Ayala Alabang condo. After that, four days of utter silence from Aaron followed. No telephone call, no e-mail, no office visit, not even one lousy text message. On the seventh day of Aaron’s arrival from London, Ginette took a few days off work. She needed to brood and sulk and feel like an utter reject amongst the heap of sorry rejects.

Aaron, she said, chose his “stupid, shallow, two-timing bar girl” over her. “But I am not at all surprised, you know,” she further vented. “What can you expect from a middle-aged man? They need to prop up their ego; they need to have their virility revalidated by a girl over half their age; they need a trophy –” Ginette faltered. She could not bring herself to say the words, trophy girlfriend, because in her opinion, Charmaine did not qualify as one.

Ginette nursed her bruised ego over a long period of 144 hours.

Heart’s Expectations

NOT very long after Ginette has bounced back to her old, happy, optimistic self again, I discovered the minute details of why Aaron dumped Ginette. Looking back to that day, I would perhaps be disinclined to hear what I heard, and know what I now knew. But as destiny would have it, I was given another little glimpse of real life, another peek on the other side of romance…

Aaron, on the second day of his arrival from London, called Charmaine on her cell phone. He wanted to see her; he wanted to discuss their break-up. Charmaine answered the phone, said she was at home and she was busy doing a writing project, and can they not talk that coming weekend? He was not happy with that brush-off. She had not seen him in over two weeks, and yet, there was no indication that she missed him. Didn’t she say she loved him?

On impulse, he went to where Charmaine lived. He had never been invited by her to come to their humble house, but he had taken her home many times, in his car, and dropped her off the street corner. He knew their house number so it was not a problem. However, Charmaine was not at home. Her relatives living in the house said that she had been out since morning.

Aaron turned the car, intending to drive towards Makati. He would have gone to the bar where he met Charmaine. He was so incensed at being lied to. But as he turned the corner, he saw Charmaine. She was walking with a young man, his arm possessively resting on her shoulder, Charmaine giggling softly and coquettishly. There was no question in Aaron’s mind that there was something going on with Charmaine and the man.

When Charmaine looked up, she saw Aaron in the car. She went very pale. Aaron drove on, teeth clenched, fury rising up within him. He had no idea how he got back to his residence as his mind was in total turbulence when he saw Charmaine with another guy.

Charmaine arrived at the condo within the next couple of hours. She was in tears as she hugged Aaron and asked for his forgiveness. She was so fearful that Aaron would break up with her. If he did, how could she go to school and feed her family at the same time? She said she did not love “that man” that Aaron saw; said she only loved Aaron, and could love no-one else.

Aaron hugged her back. “It’s all right,” he said to Charmaine, “I forgive you. I love you so very much, you know that.”

* * *

As Aaron finished relating to me his side of the story, he must have felt the rather thick and palpable contempt that oozed from my direction. I did not have to voice out what I thought of his naiveté.

“You can call me anything and I will not contest it,” he said.

I toyed with many names in my mind for Aaron: fool, blind, crazy, mad, stupid, idiot. I did not say any of them. I wasn’t there to judge him, just to listen to his justification for turning his back on Ginette.

“I realized that it is Charmaine who I really love when I saw her in someone’s arms. I was absolutely frightened of losing her!”

A hint of smirk must have crossed my face.

“You write about love,” he said, “so can’t you at least understand that what I feel for Charmaine is love at its purest?”

“I write about romance, not love at its purest. I write about fairy tales, with happy endings and feel-good resolutions.”

“And mine doesn’t have a happy ending?”

“It doesn’t have any feel-good element in it. It’s all wrong, but I’m not writing about Charmaine and your love story.” How do I tell Aaron that love was obviously one-sided in his case?

“I’m happy. I have my weekends with Charmaine – ”

Yeah, I said to myself, weekends of sex, TV, pizza. How exciting!

“ – And the first model houses of Harmony Homes are being erected as I speak. But, of course, problems at work keep on cropping up. Emmalyn keeps on asking me for more money for the business. She has forgotten her promise to me that I’d start earning on my capital after a year. I wanted to cash out but obviously, I can’t.”

I let him vent for a few more minutes. Writers are used to listening to people telling about their lives, even to endless whining. Then Aaron checked himself and apologized for talking at length about his woes.

“But,” he said after a pause, “I have a new formula, or maybe call it my new motto, for not getting overly disappointed.”

How?

“I realized that I will be happy and contented in life if I stopped expecting anything from anyone. Like with Emmalyn and my office staff, all her cohorts, by the way. I shan’t expect them anymore to deliver what they’re supposed to do and accomplish. With Charmaine, even if I love her to bits, I have started not to expect anything from her as well.”

“Not even her being faithful in exchange for your generosity and, uh, well, love?”

“If I live a life of no expectations,” Aaron explained, “I will not be disappointed or frustrated because I have no expectations of such in the first place. It’s how I plan to live my life while in the Philippines.”

We parted, Aaron and I, with a heavy, heavy load in my chest – for him.

While I admired the kind of selfless love he had for Charmaine, I totally disapprove of his ‘living a life with no expectations.’

If men or women were to go by their day-by-day activities with no positive expectations of anyone or anything, is that not the saddest and emptiest kind of living? And if men or women were to live without expectations of any kind from anyone or anything, would that not be tantamount to a life without meaning, without joy, without – well, life itself?

Hearts of men and women should not, must not, beat without any kind of expectations – jubilant, ecstatic, dismal, horrible, triumphant, ad infinitum. Living life with expectations, whether positive or negative, is what drives one to try either harder or hardest.

I feel so very sad and sorry for the hearts of a few men or women that beat in tune with that of Aaron’s.

(picture from www.leehansen.com)

A Revelation: Hearts of (a few) Men

ANNABEL and John met at a local golf resort. He was with some friends who were avid golfers; she was the restaurant supervisor of the clubhouse. He was a middle-aged Australian, a widower with no kids; she was a Filipina in her late 20’s, a single mother, her daughter was in the care of her parents in a far-away island-province. They hit it off straight away, Annabel and John, and before long, she moved in his recently-leased flat in the compound where I live. Annabel became a next-door neighbor.

She was nice, quiet, and a bit as “reclusive” as I was. She did not associate with the resident gossip in the tiny community, nor did she attend those weekend barbecues of the Australian expatriates in the compound. Most likely, it was because her partner, John, did not actually relish the company of his cheerfully loud compatriots. He was a low profile guy unlike some of the other expats in the compound. He was as quiet and as unassuming as Annabel, the kind of neighbors I preferred. It was only much later, upon discovery of an unexpected thing in a totally unexpected place, did I reflect on the couple’s relationship…

The House on the Hill

AS introverted as I was, it would’ve surprised Annabel had I told her that I had met John some three years earlier. It happened in Puerto Galera. I was on holiday with THNE: the latter was making merry connection with a new-found acquaintance from down under, and I was tracking down a faith healer to interview. (I had an off-and-on series on faith healers at the time; could not help it, I was a workaholic).

This new-found acquaintance, an Australian named after a popular soft drink, invited THNE and I to his house. He – let’s call him Dr. Pepper although he wasn’t a doctor but actually a sailor – was also on holiday like us. But unlike us, Dr. Pepper rented a fully-furnished apartment instead of staying in a beach hotel. That served him well because he stayed in Puerto Galera from one to two months unlike us who only stayed from one to two weeks at a time.

The idea of calling on Dr. Pepper did not appeal to me. I had a faith healer to look for and interview, and socializing with Aussies was not on top of my list. There are plenty of Australians in New Zealand; in fact, the Kiwi even speaks like the Aussies! What should I miss, then, if I did not come visiting Dr. Pepper? But when I found out where Dr. Pepper’s house was, I sprang for it like a jack-in-the-box. The one and only faith healer in and around the vicinity of Sabang was, according to my source, could be found on top of the hill. So, off, we went.

Sunset View

THE steep steps, maybe 60 or so, going up the hill where roofs of flats were partially visible disconcerted me briefly. Not that the exercise fazed me; it did not. I was just reminded by my inner voice that I was on vacation, wasn’t I, and did I need additional going-up-the-hill mode? The city center in Auckland, with its sloping streets everywhere afforded me that kind of mode five times a week! But the interview with the faith healer beckoned so up the hill we went. It was around half past four in the afternoon then.

Dr. Pepper appeared on top of the steep steps when THNE and I were halfway up. The former looked quite pleased as he waved to us with one hand, his other holding a bottle of San Miguel. As soon as we reached the hilltop, Dr. Pepper led us to his house. It was nothing fancy, just comfortable holiday accommodation with ample cooking facilities. There was a second floor. We went up there. Dr. Pepper said that the sunset view from the balcony was “to die for.”

That was where I first met John, Dr. Pepper’s friend who was sharing the house at the time. We were introduced to John. He said hello with an uncertain smile and parroted Dr. Pepper’s invitation to stay and watch the sunset from their balcony. We did. And even if I preferred sunrise over sunset, I had to thank Dr. Pepper and John for the opportunity. The view of the setting sun from the hill off Sabang beach was magnificent. It was like communing with Mother Nature at one of her very best. The reddish orange hue with streaks of pink and purple across the sky lent an unforgettable drama when the huge globe vanished down the sea.

(I did not get to interview the faith healer. He lived on the other side of the hill, by way of the forever-temporary and seemingly-forever-muddy wet market. I came to find him on my last day of holiday, but my enthusiasm vanished when I saw the faith healer’s dwelling by the hillside. I was frightened – and, boy, I was frightened. I had been to many houses of faith healers before, from mansion-like to match-box size houses, but I had never been that scared. The abode of my subject for interview looked like the outside of a witches’ spidery-cracked cauldron if truth be told.

I retraced my steps to the beach hotel, disappointed for having been to Puerto Galera twice and, so far, no interview yet with the local healer.)

A FEW YEARS LATER.

There was nothing wrong, in my opinion, for not having mentioned to Annabel that I met John before we became neighbors. It wasn’t as if he had a woman with him at the time. If he had, I would have zipped my mouth tighter. But as it was, I knew that John – and this, from snatches of conversations I’d overheard from THNE and his Australian expat buddies – was faithful to Annabel. I was happy for Annabel especially when she became John’s fiancee. Shortly afterwards, the couple flew to Sydney.

13 MONTHS LATER.

Power outages are most unwelcome especially if one has deadlines to beat. And if the power interruption occurred at the witching hour when no one else was in the house, like what happened one very muggy midnight, my only choice was to step out of the front door, take in fresh air to dissipate my fear and frustration – fear that most of my work might not have been saved by the automatic save feature of the PC; frustration that I might not be able to meet my deadline and collect my cheque.

I took a couple of steps away from the font door, intending to stand by the curb and stare at the stars but lo! There was Annabel, standing on the curb a few steps from her own front door, obviously intent on doing what I thought was a novel idea. I expressed pleasant surprise upon seeing her in the semi-darkness.

“I thought you were still in Australia.”

“I just arrived the other day.”

For a while, as we stood side by side in the darkish compound, the huge, shadowy presence of lush trees all around us, she told me about how she liked it in Sydney. She said she had been there twice already, something I did not know. It showed just how reclusive I was (imprisoned by deadlines maybe), not knowing that the next-door neighbor had been back from overseas, flew again, and now, was back again. But back to Annabel’s story –

She recounted how she and John’s mother got on well. The mother was in her 80s and a bit frail but was still active so it was not too bad. I wanted to ask Annabel when she and John will marry but something in her voice stopped me from being nosy.

As if she could read my mind, she said, “John will not be returning to the Philippines anymore, even for a short holiday.”

Why? I did not ask that, it just showed in my eyes illuminated by the bright stars in the night sky.

“He is ill.”

I was stunned.

“So what are you doing here?” I asked, not unkindly. “You’re engaged to be married. Shouldn’t you look after him?”

Her voice broke. “He has broken our engagement. He’s not marrying me anymore. And he even took me to this spot in a park, somewhere in Sydney, where Filipino women and Australian men hang out in search of partners. John wanted me to find another boyfriend.”

It took a bit for me to digest all that. It was overwhelming, all those information. I was speechless for several minutes.

Annabel broke the silence. Her voice was no longer broken but I heard the tears in her tone.

She said, “I refused to go to that place the second time. But don’t get me wrong. It was a decent place, just like a normal meeting place, not a sleazy type for picking up one-night stands.”

“Why would John suggest that you find another boyfriend? If he is sick – “

“He is very sick and his mother did not want me to leave Australia. She wanted his son to marry me so I could stay. She knew that John loves me as I love him… But he did not listen to her. Even when I begged him to let me stay and look after him, he said no. And then my six-month tourist visa ran out. His mother could not sponsor my stay so I had to leave. There was nothing I could do to change his mind.”

“If he really loves you – ”

“Yes, he does,” Annabel interjected, pain and grief in her words and manner, “I have no doubt about that, that’s why he wanted me to find someone else, to be happy. He does not want me to see him suffer as his cancer gets worse. He pretended to be all right until the last moment before I left, but I knew he was dying. He did not want to make a widow out of me, and later be saddled with the care of his elderly mother.”

I was silent for a long time. I had always, always thought that only women were capable of such sacrifice. Even if some of my romance novels depicted men as capable of endless and/or enduring love, I had not seen men in the light as I now see John. A most unexpected place for me, really, to discover: selfless love in the heart of a man.

THESE DAYS:

Annabel has been living with her American husband in Washington DC for a couple of years now. It took her a few years to mourn John’s passing away before she was persuaded to settle down. Just the same, I am inclined to think that she would never cease loving this unassuming Aussie who loved beautiful sunsets viewed from the house on the hill off Sabang beach.

And I have to thank him again; this time, for unshackling my prejudice with regards to the hearts of men.

Almost Paradise

THE beach is on top of my list when it comes to choices of romantic settings in my novels. The reasons are much too transparent even to the readers.

Then, too, the beach, as a setting, provides a wide spectrum of scenarios that allow the main protagonists to interact in ways that tickle the imagination. Like, for example, a supposedly demure heroine with a stunning body will have “no choice” but to wear her bikini and, hopefully, dazzle the previously indifferent hero. On the other hand, another hero can unwittingly shed his usual nerdy attire, wear his Speedo that will show off his strong forearms and abs to the heroine who has always looked at him as dull, uninteresting, and worse, wimpy. The beach, indeed, is a place where one who has it can flaunt it and not be reprimanded for being an exhibitionist. In other words, the beach is a pragmatic choice of setting for an author of romance paperbacks.

The beach on my mind, however, is not complete without the word ‘resort’ after it. And since a couple of decades ago, there is one beach resort – actually, it’s an island resort – that had clung to my mind like spilt chocolate drink on the white shag carpet. This island resort, which I will call Almost Paradise, has been the setting of many of my romantic novels, and also the setting of my very successful romance-thriller series, Diamante (13 books in all and still unfinished until now). But then again, Almost Paradise Island Resort had showed me the many faces of the other side of romance during those times when I was, supposedly, on holiday.

This is a glimpse of one of several other curious love stories and relationships that got snagged in my memory bank in one of my working holidays in Almost Paradise…

The Tanned Couple

DAISY and Günther (not their real names, for reasons that will be obvious to you in a bit) arrived in style at Almost Paradise. I said ‘in style’ because rarely did guests arrive in this island resort by helicopter. The norm was for resort guests to take the plane from Manila; be picked up by the resort staff upon arrival in the postage-stamp sized airport in the provincial capital, and be escorted to the tiny wharf where a small ferry was waiting. The ferry would then bring the guests to the island resort.

It was a hassle, all those rides, to Almost Paradise but the 40-minute ferry ride across calm blue waters, with breathtaking views of the surrounding islets to your left and to your right, would compensate for the hassle. And as soon as the ferry approached the island itself, with its gleaming white sand and waters that seemed diamond-studded, all you could think of was paradise with a capital P. Any hardworking person on holiday was bound to lose, almost instantaneously, all signs of stresses. Almost Paradise was exactly that – almost paradise. (But take note not to travel there while there’s a raging storm, or you’d triple your current level of stress.)

But back to Daisy and Günther, the couple with overly bronzed skin, big floppy hats and oversized sunglasses, who, as I would learn later, had been using helicopters in their beach-hopping binge across the country like a “regular” taxi service.

Daisy looked very Asian; she’s Filipina but she could be mistaken for a Vietnamese or Thai. She was no taller than five feet so when she stood beside Günther, her European husband, she looked like a midget. Günther was about 6’5” tall and sort of gangly.

The couple was quite affable. Daisy was particularly warm and bubbly – but only to me, I would quickly notice, compared with the other female guests in the island resort whom she appeared not to notice at all. Günther was cordial to everyone although he had the kind of smile that only got reflected in his eyes. If other people smiled only with the corners of their lips upturned, Günther, it seemed to me, did not have that facial ability. Still, it was pleasant to see his crinkly grey eyes twinkling at a joke; sometimes, he laughed with a kind of laugh resembling a throaty rumble.

Socializing with the other guests in this island resort was easy. There was only one dining hall and one entertainment room with a big-screen television and a couple of pool tables. There were no TV set and telephone unit in the bungalows. It was part of its charm: not having to listen or watch to depressing news, or get calls from whoever. After all, people went to the island resort to “get away from it all” as its advertisement read.

There was a big swimming pool adjacent to the dining hall, but most of the guests preferred to swim in the clear blue waters. And oh, yes, there was a 9-hole golf course at Almost Paradise but its quality was not up to par with golf aficionados. But, still, some guests played there when they’ve had enough of jogging (by the beach), swimming, jet-skiing, glass-boating, snorkeling, and boozing in the floating bar. When it rained, the guests contented themselves playing Trivial Pursuit – and thank, goodness, there was no karaoke bar there at the time.

At the time, too, even when I was supposedly on holiday (from regular work in Auckland), I saw to it that I had brought deadlines to work on; not much, just small writing projects from the local publications. It was the way I always wanted my holidays to be – productive. So, while the male partners of the guest-couples were into their thing – like playing Trivial Pursuit or sharing common trivial experience while sipping single malt Scotch whisky, I either shut myself in the bungalow to write, or write away the lovely time at the front porch of our bungalow. The view of the beach, the sea, and the neighboring islands from the porch on a bright, cloudless day was just fantastic – and that was where Daisy had cornered me, so to speak, quite a few times, for some girl-talk.

Girl-talk, in this context, consisted of her telling me about her diet, her exercise, the new and fancy clothes accumulating in her closet but have not been worn yet, their vacation houses in Florida and Tuscany, her family background, her life before she met Günther. She told me how “young” she was but this was before putting me in a spot.

“How old do you think I am?” Daisy asked me with an impish grin. [This was after she showed me how to do crunches when we were in our bungalow’s porch. She was aghast, you see, when I told her I was not a member of any fitness club.]

I would have said that she looked as old as my mother, but being rude was not in my character. I remembered having mentioned a number close to my own age at the time. She laughed, very pleased at my stupidity. Then she told me that she was already 44-years old, a number I could not believe. She may be petite and slim but up close, without her floppy hat and large sunglasses, her skin was dry, nearly akin to a dehydrated prune. But in fairness, all the beach-hopping that she and her husband was doing, exposing themselves to sun as much as possible, must have done its damage without them doing something to protect their skin.

In our later conversation, I would also learn that before she married Günther, she used to work at the airport. Her father, who had just retired, also worked there and held a senior post. Daisy had also told me about her previous marriage to a foreigner, they had a son, and she retained custody of the son when they divorced. The son was already grown-up then and was in the care of Daisy’s parents.

In between these many conversations with Daisy, whether with just the two of us, or during meals at the dining hall, or walks on the beach, or having evening barbecues on the beachfront with the hubbies, I learned about Günther’s financial status. He was an engineer and the inventor of mobile wheelchairs. (There had been many other inventions since then pertaining to mobile wheelchairs so Günther’s anonymity is assured, I hope!)

It was a big, big deal at the time. To invent something as functional as a wheelchair that afforded mobility to its user was a guarantee for lifelong wealth. Günther also owned the company that produced other high-tech gadgets, but he had retired recently, leaving the management of his business to his son from a previous marriage. With Daisy, Günther, who was in his mid-50s, had gone on to their early retirement by traveling all over the world and enjoying life as if they’re in paradise.

No Cinderella

IF Daisy had came from a poor family, I would conclude that her love story was like Cinderella’s. But she was not from a poor family. They – her family – was relatively well-off, and this, despite the fact that her father did not use his position as a junior immigration officer assigned at the airport to acquire wealth. I was in awe when Daisy mentioned that. Corruption amongst the immigration/customs officers in the country was an open secret. And to discover that such an officer exists who has not enriched himself in office, I, naturally, admired this person.

Ironically, when Daisy mentioned her father’s honesty, the impression she gave me was that of disapproval. She thought he was impractical. Then I learned why. Daisy was the exact opposite of her father. She was a personal assistant, or PA, to an important customs officer, and she used her position to stuff her pocket and wallet with bribe money. I could not imagine how a PA could do that but, apparently, she used her boss’ name without him, the boss, knowing that Daisy was getting bribes. The bribes came from people coming in from overseas, bringing in highly taxable goods. Daisy facilitated the release of those goods for a “fee” which was a fraction of the right amount of tax that should go to the government.

I was dumbfounded.

But I haven’t heard it all yet.

If She Was Simply Man-Mad, or Even Sex-Mad…

WHAT was more shocking was this: Daisy, to that day, continued her illegal activities – despite her husband’s wealth!

“How could I do that?” she asked me, her eyes aglitter with amusement. She was obviously enjoying my open-mouthed perplexity with how she could still “earn” easy money the way she used to when she was the senior customs officer’s PA when she was no longer working for him.

“Oh, quite easy,” Daisy answered her own question. “I have many friends there. And my previous contacts, you know, the business people who brought in goods from, say, Hong Kong, still rely on me to assist them. They will usually give me a call, tell me when they’re flying back to the country, and I will be at the airport to meet them. I mean, I meet them and tell the customs staff handling the customs declaration documents that the arrival is a friend of mine. And off we go through customs without any problem. Of course, I have to share half of my ‘fee’ to my friends still working at customs. It’s SOP.”

“I thought you and Günther are traveling around the world, and not permanently based in Manila?”

Daisy laughed again. She really thought I was impressed with how clever she was in earning easy money.

She said, “I make sure we’re in the Philippines six months every year. Maybe only three to five weeks at a time, but within that period, I always get a call from friends coming in through customs who need assistance.”

I could not speak. What could I say anyway?

“Or sometimes,” Daisy added, “I fly to Hong Kong myself to join my business friends. It’s only a short hop. I fly to Hong Kong in the morning and return in the afternoon. It was easier if I claim to my friends at customs that the goods are mine.”

“Does your husband know?”

She laughed out loudly. “Certainly not! He will kill me if he learns I’m up to my tricks again. Günther did not even know I’d been to Hong Kong for the day. He thought that I was just at the gym or at the beauty salon all those time. Am I not clever?”

I should have asked Daisy if she had a pressing need for extra money, but I did not. It was transparent that she had no urgent need for that. Any couple who used the chopper like a normal taxi service in their island resort hopping, stayed in 5-star hotels, and flew to Singapore just to enjoy a dinner of authentic Hainanese chicken rice, must be rolling in dough.

When Daisy and Günther shared our dinner table that evening, I observed the couple a little more closely. I tried to perceive if there was something odd in the way they act, speak, gesture. I wanted to rationalize, in my mind, Daisy’s need to moonlight as cohort to small-time smugglers. But all I detected, up until the time when their private helicopter landed at Almost Paradise to pick the couple up, was a genuine loving relationship. It was a good material for a romance novel but one which I have not written about, until now.

There was no way I could twist or transform this story – basically, Daisy’s – to an acceptable read. I may sometimes pander to my readers’ need to read about a man-mad, even a sex-mad, heroine, but with the likes of Daisy, I simply could not shrug off my repugnance.

Daisy had it all: a supportive family, a loving husband, comfort beyond imagination of the ordinary mortal. It was safe to say that she was blessed with a life akin to almost paradise. But almost paradise for her meant nothing.

She had to trick and cajole Günther to take off Almost Paradise that day. A business friend had sent her a coded telephone message the previous evening. The friend needed her facilitating service; this friend just bought a huge shipment of faux designer shoes and bags and bales of fine silk. Daisy was to fly to Bangkok the next day, return to Manila the next in order for the friend’s shipment to breeze through customs sans duties.

It was disgusting and sad at the same time. Daisy and Günther could have joined the guest couples at Almost Paradise in an hour’s time – sipping champagne while watching the sun set on the horizon which resembled a palette of orange, pink, purple and golden hues. It was oh, so romantic.

But there was no romance in being money-mad.

The Eternal Bachelor -- Not

HIS was the face and physique I would never dream of using to describe the hero of my romantic novel. But I do remember having arrogated, for one of my fictive heroes, some of his other attributes. Attributes – some of which were, of course, magnified – such as his clear green eyes that twinkled in quiet merriment even at the corniest joke, his dark brown hair with its lush curls that enticed women to want to touch it, feel it, and tame it; his being soft-spoken, his gentle and generous ways, his vulnerabilities as – when I first met him – a recently jilted man.

Ignore the face and physical build and sure, he would be Prototype Hero # 3 of formulaic romance novels. A certified bachelor, financially stable, owned a couple of mortgage-free houses, drove a car so shiny that vain women used it as mirror; he also did not smoke, did not drink, did not gamble, did not swear, a very likable guy it seemed – but not eternally likable, apparently, for his fiancée who dropped him with nary a warning. How many stories can a crafty (sarcasm intended) author of romance squeeze from this man’s heartbreak?

He wasn’t downright plain. Oh, no, not at all. He had a nice smile, albeit shy, that lit up his face. But when he wasn’t smiling, he looked so ordinary that one would think he’s part of the wall, the landscape, or whatever’s in the background at the moment. He was of medium height, around 5’7” maybe, a wee bit on the pudgy side but he moved with the agility of a man younger than his age. He was in his mid-30s then. He dressed casually, too casual I would say. He wore jeans, short-sleeved shirt, and trainers in summer. Again: jeans, short-sleeved shirt and trainers in autumn and spring. And then again: jeans, short-sleeved shirt and trainers in winter; his cardigan or jumper would be in his car, perhaps to be used if snow falls and temperature, as a result, drops in the vicinity of -13°C. (Like what happened when two inches of snow fell in Auckland on 27 July 1939, the only time snow fell in the city throughout recorded history.)

It wasn’t a big surprise, I suppose, that he was unmindful of the change of seasons and the resulting change in temperature. He was from Ireland. New Zealand’s famous mild winter, at least in the North Island, was, perhaps, just like summer in Belfast for him.

This Irish Bachelor

SINCE half the men born in Ireland are called Patrick, let me call him that as well – no affront to his parents who named him after a popular cigarette brand.

I met Patrick on my second or third day in New Zealand, and that was eons ago. He came to the flat to visit, ostensibly, his friend and my fiancé (then husband, now ex) who, a few weeks ago, managed to get his big toe crushed by the edge of a 40-ton container at work. (But my fiancé [then husband, now ex], or THNE, was wearing steel-capped work boots so the damage to the big toe was miraculously minimal.)

Patrick’s visit would have been immediately forgotten. However, as soon as he left, THNE mentioned to me that he, Patrick, had been recently jilted. His fiancée, an Irish like him, came to New Zealand, stayed with him for about eight months, then she – let’s call her Fiona – decided to return to Ireland. When Fiona reached Dublin, her home, she called Patrick to say she had arrived safely after an uneventful flight and that by the way, the wedding’s off. Forever.

Shocking, indeed!

Needless to say, I wanted to know all there was to know about Patrick and Fiona. What romance novelist worth her salt would not want to dig deeper into this kind of situation? Sure, I felt heavyhearted for Patrick, but my morbid fascination for other people’s love life – happy or otherwise; romantic or otherwise – was on high gear. I have not met in real life, until that sunny winter’s day, a person who was jilted at the altar – well, near enough.

And learn, I did, some things from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

Matchmakers, Incorporated

PATRICK, I discovered, could be quite candid on most matters, but with one exception. He was hesitant to discuss Fiona and how she broke his heart. Nevertheless, I managed to have a picture of it from snatches of various conversations with him and his circle of friends, who were also my then husband (by that time), now ex’s friends as well.

Fiona was Patrick’s long-time girlfriend. Some said they were childhood sweethearts. When he decided to come to New Zealand, Fiona thought that he would stay down under only for a brief spell. Just like a working holiday. But Patrick liked the climate and liked the people; plus, he got lucky and landed a spot in a high-profile company known for its generous travel perks to employees. He stayed on in the country but kept in close touch with Fiona by phone and frequent visits to Dublin; frequent as in twice to thrice a year.

Eventually, after thousands of miles of overseas travel back and forth, Patrick managed to convince Fiona to come to Auckland. He wanted to show her what has kept him in New Zealand. She agreed. She took a long leave from work and traveled halfway round the world to be with Patrick. They got engaged. He was very happy. His mates had not seen Patrick in such state of bliss. The couple started planning for their weddings (yes, plural): a quiet one at the Registry Office in Auckland with close friends in attendance, and a “proper” one, in church, in Dublin. Ireland-based families and friends, from both parties, would naturally be invited.

The wedding plan did not come to pass. All of Patrick’s Auckland-based friends felt sorry for him. They thought that Fiona was a heartless woman; they believed that she should have stuck with Patrick and embraced his dreams for the future. How dared she, said one of Patrick’s friends, return to her career, family and friends, and to everything in Ireland she grew up with, and leave Patrick who only wanted to escape Ireland’s dismal weather?

But if Patrick was disinclined to talk about his failed relationship, he was the opposite when the topic veered to drinking or alcoholism. He used to be a heavy drinker, he said. It got so bad, his drinking, that he wouldn’t know how he got home from the pub, or whose mate’s house he’d wake up, groggily, from his unconsciousness. The worst episode, he said, was when he woke up on the side of the street somewhere in South Auckland, his body slumped on the ground like a discarded rag doll. A few feet away from him was his car, engine running, haphazardly parked on the curb, headlights on, passenger side door wide open. The fat drops of rain was what roused him from his alcoholic torpor – and roused he was, no doubt about it. He was lying face down on something quite sickening.

He realized later what must have happened: he was drunk, yet he drove home; he felt sick and thus stopped on the side of the road to get sick. But he was as drunk as a skunk that he just passed out onto his own vomit. Revolting, indeed!

After that, he said, he got in touch with the local Alcoholics Anonymous chapter. Through AA, he got over his heavy drinking, and never had a drop of alcohol ever since. The thought that he could have killed someone while driving under the influence, he further said, was what made him walk away from his worsening alcohol addiction.

A year after that, Fiona had come to live with him in Auckland, they got engaged, and he got jilted. His broken heart, fortunately, did not lead him back to the bottle. He was very proud of that and I was impressed. A lesser man, like in one or two of my romance novels, would have gotten himself soused over and over to deaden the hurt of being callously rejected.

Soon enough, most of his mates at work plus their spouses, most of whom were Filipinas, plotted to introduce him to a ‘nice woman.’

But naturally, I also became a member of ‘Matchmakers, Inc.’

My Single Friends

THAT I wasn’t the only one plotting to make a match for Patrick did not dampen my enthusiasm. I sincerely wanted him to have another shot at happiness, and I thought it would also be fun to present this bachelor to single women who might be interested to get to know him. However, when I learned that the other ‘schemers’ had their sisters or cousins in mind to introduce to Patrick, I was sort of amused. Not for long, though, because it hit me: the other members of Matchmakers, Inc. were deadly serious in their design.

To make this short, Patrick was introduced, both in subtle and glaring ways, to eligible women. Most were from the Philippines, a few of those Filipinas were already residing in New Zealand, and there were a number of Caucasian (‘Pakeha,’ as the indigenous people of Aotearoa call the Europeans) females as well.

I tried to introduce three of my single friends (I had a different set of friends then) to Patrick when he flew with me and with my then husband, now ex (THNE) for a month-long Philippine holiday. None of the introduction happened though. THNE got to meet my friends first, and he confided that they’re not Patrick’s type and it would be a waste of time.

Not Patrick’s type…?

They’re too sophisticated, was the answer given to me.

All three, in retrospect, were taller than Patrick and all three loved wearing heels. Not only that. These three – Gina, Lou and Divine – were not only smart, attractive, assertive, full of confidence, and successful in their career; they were also very particular about the looks of a guy. I could almost hear Lou making funny but scathing remarks about the cheek of a vertically challenged suitor who once asked her for a date. These girls were really picky, but especially Lou.

My THNE’s ‘rejection’ of my friends did not disconcert me. However, it made me wonder what Patrick’s type was. I thought I found out the answer soon when, the next day, I met Patrick’s penpal from Manila. Let’s call her Jean.

She was as attractive as my friends but she was painfully shy. She happened to have this big zit on her chin – most likely, a menstrual zit, nothing revolting – but she kept covering, with her hand, her chin and mouth while speaking very softly. After a while of trying to make sense of what she was saying, I realized that she might be physically attractive but she had a mousy personality. She lacked vibrancy; she lacked enthusiasm. That’s when I got the impression that she could be Patrick’s type.

Patrick dated Jean a few times, with chaperon, during the course of that particular holiday in Manila. I thought it was a good sign. The single women he was introduced to in Auckland did not have that number of chance of getting to know him. So, with Jean, I had hoped that something positive would come of it. It did not. Patrick returned to New Zealand with nothing, not even a crumbly string, to indicate that his bachelor days are numbered.

And so the years went by. The well-intentioned schemers, including me, had lost interest in making a match for Patrick. Matchmaker, Inc. died a natural death. Patrick remained a bachelor although he had always expressed that he would marry when he met the right woman.

We lost contact with Patrick a few years after my THNE and I returned to the Philippines for a long, long spell.

A DOZEN YEARS LATER…

IT was the onset of winter when I returned to New Zealand for an extended vacation. One of the first people I phoned when I got there was Patrick. His telephone just rang and rang the first time I called. No answering machine picked up my call; a surprise since everybody, but everybody, had an answering machine. On my second try a few days later, a male voice answered. He, the voice, was rather curt to my polite request to speak to Patrick. He’s not available, was all he said and then hung up. I did not have the opportunity to ask if I can leave a message.

Since I had better things to do with my New Zealand-based family members, and I had other activities more important to pursue, it took nearly a month before I again tried Patrick’s number. The same male voice picked up the phone, asked who I was, and it took a couple of minutes for him to get Patrick on the phone. I heard some kind of discussion in the background but it was garbled. It was some kind of argument or something. I could not be sure what it was about. What I was sure of was that I felt disconcerted. Did I ring at a bad time? Have I not made clear that I am a long-time (not old) family friend?

When Patrick picked up the phone, I was greeted with a gruff, “Who is this?”

I was shocked. Was this the person who welcomed me to New Zealand eons ago, and who treated me and my THNE to a nice dinner, like a despedida, on the eve of my earlier departure from the country twelve years ago? Was this the same old friend who I had welcomed many times in my homes, both in Auckland and much later, in Manila, introduced to my family, ate and had fun with us, and who played ‘sweet uncle’ to my youngest who was only six or seven years old at the time?

Much to my consternation, he could not recall who I was despite my explanation. To save myself from further dismay, I thanked him for taking my call and apologized if my call inconvenienced him.

For a person who, for years and years, had been using words and stringing them up to paint a picture or an emotion, that incident had failed me. I could not describe my bewilderment over that distressing telephone conversation.

Teetotaler – Not

MY old friend’s surly attitude on the telephone, I discovered later, was because he was drunk. And not just drunk. His being a teetotaler became a thing of the past; his being a heavy drinker, previously, as if from another life, had come back to possess him and then turned him into an alcoholic.

I was speechless as another old friend, one of Patrick’s mates at work, explained his – Patrick’s – disremembering me. Our mutual friend was forlorn as he narrated how Patrick is on the verge of self-destruction or being fired from work. He got drunk on the job; that is, if he managed not to report for work already soused. His friends and mates at work had been alternately covering up for him, doing his job while he drank in the loo or sprawled, soused, in the staff room.

“What happened?” was all I could say, not for the second or third time. “What pushed him to drink again?”

There was one and only one reason our mutual friend gave, or blamed, for Patrick’s alcohol addiction:

His drinking started soon after he got married a few years ago.