The month was April, too. The first workshop was an April, not May, affair.
The great NJ after lunch somehow found his way, Willie Sanchez and I in tow, to North Pole, then Dumaguetes premier watering hole (now only a legend). Since the workshop session would start at 3 p.m., we had over two hours of beer and drunken singing for, as luck would have it, we happened to be the only customers then.
The original North Pole, then on Alfonso XIII (now Perdices St.), was an incredible heven of a place for writers like NJ and Willy to drink and sing and carouse in. Nick sang the songs from South Pacific, apparently just recently shown in Manila that year. The South Pacific at the North Pole! Come to think of it. He sang well. He sang very well. And since of the generations of writers that followed Nicks it is Erwin Castillo who can sing at entry level, I guess thats a good indication that Castillo is his heir apparent. "To remember and to sing, that is my vocation," A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino, remember?
I remember saying, for sheer lack of anything to say, that Nolledo was my idol. NJ protested in mock hurt and I quickly added, hoping to make amends, that I had not really read him the great Nick Joaquin yet. "That makes it worse!" NJ said, Willy laughing exactly the same way he still laughs now (though the last time I heard him laugh was on the phone nine years ago).
Edith joined this line of discussion by recalling a scene from Franco Zeffirellis Romeo and Juliet, in which the two youngsters are lying still in bed, clad to reveal, with a classical piece of music in the background. The music of the spheres?
Somehow I found myself alluding to Thomas Aquinas (was it his?) "All animals are sad after sex."
Three weeks later I texted Butch P. to ask how he found the scene in Peque Gallagas Oro Plata Mata. The one with Cherie Gil, eyes shut, poised like a lotus astride Ronnie Lazaro The Beatles singing No Reply somewhere.
John and George gone. And now Nick is gone. With his passing the coming to the surface of the new old men of Philippine letters.
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
WILA has been helping keep the literary scene alive in Cebu the past 11 years or so. The launch of my book Checkmeta in Cebu, which they sponsored was held at Waterfront Cebu City Hotel, which therefore, at some point or two, made me feel a bit like Marlon Brando of Last Tango fame. Or maybe Julius Caesar. I came, I saw, WILA conquered. Sawila. Just ask the guy who shot the picture that appears on my books cover, Bob Lim ( the Freddie Aguilar of Cebu photography) or better yet the Hilario Davide Jr. of Cebu poetry, Simeon Dumdum, Jr.
There was so much wine that evening I swear Ill never be able to drink wine again without remembering Annabelle Amor, WILAs present chair. Vino rojo she had texted, and vino rojo it was on Twelfth Night. Nothing promised that was not performed.
In my story "The Reader" ("story" is really not the word for it the crazy prose piece is better off with the term "narrative"), I invented Mr. MW, a British novelist based in the Philippines who, in two decades of exile writing, put literary matters askew in the country when it was apparent he had become also, albeit only arguably, a Filipino writer. Who would have dreamed this tongue-in-cheek invention would become true and my narrative prophetic? Certainly not me. But lo and behold, a British novelist has been with us for over a decade now writing novels set in the Philippines with Filipino characters in the cast! He is Timothy Mo, a three-time Booker Prize, the most prestigious literary award in Shakespeares country, nominee.
Jun Dumdum came in looking, as he always does in my minds eye, like Solzhenitsyn with a smile, and said, "Sar si Tim." I pretended to recognize the man with a nod and quickly looked elsewhere. But there he still stood and I, ever the handicapped conversationalist (except on occasions) politely groped for a word to fill the void with. I asked, in Cebuano, if his candidate whoever it was won. Unperturbed the bloke replied in English and I mean English English accent! I blurted: "Tim! Im sorry I didnt recognize you! God! You look so Filipino!"
Timothy Mo is half-Asian and with the deep tan and medium height, he looks as Pinoy as, say, Joe Cordero, the Silliman stage actor whom he resembles.
He seems elusive if not reclusive, though, a la Castaneda or Pynchon with the photographers. Look at the photo of him. Needless to say, thats him trying to mask his face with his master novelists hand. That he came to the launch at all is because the only male WILA, Jun Dumdum, is his close friend.
One of the winners is Cesar Jalosjos, for congressman.
And my mind flashes back foggily to 1969 when I taught for the first time, at the Ateneo de Zamboanga. The just elected congressman, a namesake, was my student in English then. Try as I might I cannot visualize him except as the teen-ager he was then, tall and lean and boyish and very quiet.
Anyway there goes my plan of possibly sleeping a night or two in the house of Jose Rizal.
Some other time perhaps. Perhaps in the fifth summer of the new millennium. When we are not angry with one another.