Lou and behold

You don’t have to be brave to go to Tondo, at least in Louie Baltazar’s barangay. The tanods stop the traffic, the pedestrians, the obnoxious dogs in order to assist drivers into, and back out of Louie’s narrow side street. Their occupants crowd in front of Louie’s 19th- century ancestral home which his parents wouldn’t recognize any longer. Louie has helped his neighbors apply for land ownership. In gratitude they watch over his house. He’s their attorney, their Santa Claus and father. He’s also their son and brother.

Just like he is to me.

Today, his neighbors are watching us as we greet each other hello and bid each other goodbye while milling around the sari-sari store or playing dama. Mothers breastfeed their babies, men roam shirtless, badings fan themselves, old folks exhale, causing pollution as they blow smoke into our path. The children play basketball on the street. The ball they use is a present from attorney. Everyone’s giggling, waiting for Mikee to emerge from Louie’s house.

Instead it’s Rudy, "Hali kayo, kailangan kayo ni Atty. Baltazar." Muscular men, flabby elders enter Louie’s abode. They listen to rushing water from the walls that flow into a pond. They’re ready to carry a sofa from the second floor up to the fifth floor and a table down from the fourth to the first floor of the 290-square- meter and six-story abode. Louie lives with his sister Kathy. "Akala ko bagong opera ka, Mang Tibo?" Tibo answers, "Sir, OK na ako. Salamat po, wala na akong luslos." I see myself in Louie as he plays chess with the furniture. We certainly are of the same mold.

Above the palo china and cement bridges that connect numerous airy landings are dining, living, bed and meditation rooms. On every floor there’s bamboo – Chinese, buko and tinikan. Ferns and moss hang from the ceiling, daring to enter to be counted as honorable occupants, never intruders. Trees that reach the clouds live because Louie has hidden sprinklers to water them constantly.

Revive, that’s what he does for me, because Louie is my accountant-lawyer, an indignant gentleman who’ll protect me, a compassionate friend, a counselor with a heart and a sugar daddy, too. But listen, his home can be as dangerous as his vile temper. A dangerous home? Surely if you’ve had too many drinks. Louie enjoys drinks with Alex Ignacio, Boy Vaño, Aster Dolina, Wilson Amper, PMAers of Class ’83, his mistahs. In spite of being diabetic, Louie threatens to buy (and he does) hopia, turon, balut, chicharon, espasol and tamales. That’s fine by me. He delivers them to my house regularly.

* * *

"Can I inherit your house?" I ask as he shows me around to see what he’s done. His house is a chessboard in perpetual flux. His boys – they’re either cooks, secretaries, drivers or household help – are the MTG’s or mobile training group for neighborly Tondo dock hands. Up and down, down and up and up and up they go through winding staircases while Louie supervises through his monitoring cameras.

Is he a disciplined person?

You can bet on that. Louie gets up daily at 5 a.m., is in Luneta by 6 a.m. for tai chi which helps keep his weight down and thwarts off diabetes, which is his enemy no. 1. His weight fluctuates like his temper. When we fume at each other, we know it’s but a few minutes before we call each other again. "Hi, Ting." Like nothing happened. Did anything happen? I’m confused. What an odd couple we make, fat and thin, lawyer-historian, saver-spender. Really, he’s my one and only. "Are you going to follow my advice or not?"

The next time we’re in a better mood. "You like it?" Louie examines a Tiffany necklace. "I’ll get it for you." Can I afford to buy an emerald ring? I wonder. "Yes, go ahead." I won’t be broke? I ask myself. "No, you’ll be one ring richer."

Isn’t he wonderful?

Zamboanga is beautiful by the sea where we both go to recharge and unwind with Roland my researcher, CPA Francis who cooks. Louie buys all the decorative plants for the house and Jessie plans the menus. I read my book on terrorism. In spite of the sea breeze and the sound of water I’ve often thought a DVD would be entertaining at siesta time. "You want a DVD? A television set with an overhead projector? Go ahead Ting, it’s OK… I made some lawyering money."

Today, the Muslim pearl lady isn’t called to the house because I’m occupied watching a movie.

Some of my children call him Manong Louie or Tito Louie and if he suffers from an identity crisis in my household, we don’t mind, it’s him and he’s used to it. Because of Louie, Mikee and China and Mai don’t have any Bureau of Internal Revenue cases for tax evasion. They’ve paid all their dues (ouch) to the Philippine government.

Before every trip I send him his Louie "Vuitton" wallet. Please, Louie, can you refurbish the original contents of P100, P50 and P20 bills for my tips? Food? I never have a problem with that. Food on the table is care of daddy Louie, whether it’s in Cotabato, Zamboanga or Baguio. It’s lobster, sugpo, curacha, pako and strawberries.

"Louie, I have a problem," I say.

"I’ll take care of it and call Pete Cura and Ben Platon. In the meantime, go antique hunting and remember that all things come to pass."

I can’t find a finer friend to be my pal. Happy birthday, Louie.