The Mentals

In January 1996, the great Filipino writer Bienvenido Santos (Scent of Apples), who’d spent most of his life in the United States, had his last and most serious illness. He was confined at Makati Medical Center. My friends, who are all in the book trade, were groupies of Ben Santos. They called themselves The Mentals, like a garage band whose albums you wouldn’t buy. They decided to get together one Saturday afternoon and pay Mang Ben a visit. I did not know Mang Ben as well as they did, but I’d read his wonderful stories and tagged along anyway.

Five of us — Tina Cuyugan (Forbidden Fruit: Women Write The Erotic), Ambeth Ocampo (Rizal without the Overcoat), Danton Remoto (Skin, Voices, Faces), Ruth Roa (Vestiges of War) and myself — crammed into Ruth’s car, a 10-year-old sedan the color of a diseased rhinoceros. It was the cruddiest car I’d ever seen: the accumulated dust formed crenellations on the roof. I swear, people would point to it on the street.

The backseat of this automotive wonder (it’s a wonder it ran at all) was the dream of a demented archaeologist. Like an ancient city buried in the sand, it contained manuscripts, takeout boxes, several umbrellas with missing spokes, the occasional sculpture (Ruth produced art books), and “The Holy Grail.” Yes, “The Holy Grail” — the tape of the album of the soundtrack of the film by Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

That car had figured in many adventures. One time, Ruth lost her parking ticket at a shopping mall. Since she wouldn’t be allowed to leave the building without it, she tried to make a mad dash for freedom. Bad idea. The guards at the exit were alerted, and they waited for her, guns at the ready. If you ever lose your parking ticket, do not try the getaway approach.

Another time, Ruth got a flat tire along EDSA. She managed to change the tire all by herself, and feeling proud of her achievement, she got back in the car. Ten minutes later, she was driving on Ortigas when she noticed a tire rolling alongside her car. Guess whose tire it was?

We parked on Amorsolo Street, behind the hospital, and walked up the driveway. There was a sign at the door, and Danton read it out loud: “Rear entry only.” Immediately we were convulsed with laughter, for Danton has a gift for making the most innocuous phrases sound lascivious. “But that’s what the sign says,” he protested, which only made us more hysterical. Visits to the sick are usually sober occasions, but sometimes the way to deal with the thought of mortality is to laugh at it. I mean, the Grim Reaper is going to get us all eventually, so let’s go down fighting. And if you get Danton to say that, it would sound hilarious.

In Mang Ben’s hospital room we were joined by a few other friends. Mang Ben had tubes in his nose and he couldn’t speak, but his eyes were moving and he was aware of our presence. Then the door opened and the fabulous Gilda Cordero-Fernando swept into the room. Now Gilda is into a lot of spiritual New Age stuff, and she believes in accepting one’s fate. She kissed Mang Ben on the forehead and happily cried, “Malapit na!” (It’s near!) While I pondered her meaning she added, “Iiwan na ang pangit na body!” (You’re leaving the defective body!)

My friends and I had to avoid looking at each other, because if our eyes met we would have an attack of the giggles. “Let’s sing a song for Ben,” Gilda said. “What’s a song we all know?”

There was a moment of silence, then someone — I think it was Ruthie — said, “Um, Happy Birthday?”

I started thinking of really sad things to keep from screaming with laughter. War. Famine. Pestilence. Ironically the one that was hovering around the room — Death — didn’t occur to me at all.

Someone suggested the national anthem.

I thought of tearjerker movies. Abandoned pets. Rick and Ilsa saying goodbye at the airport in Casablanca. Louis Jourdan finally remembering who Joan Fontaine was in Letter from an Unknown Woman.

Finally it was decided that everyone present would hold hands, form a circle around Mang Ben, and sing that anthem of protest rallies, Bayan Ko. The performance was a little weak, choked up with emotion, though not the emotion one would expect. I refused to sing. I am not a community singing type of person. Neither was RayVi Sunico, so while the singers faltered at “Ibon man may layang lumipaaad...” (Even birds are free to soar...) we competed at the single-eyebrow Olympic high jump.

Later, on our way home, I needled The Mentals for having been coerced into the sing-along. “I swear I wasn’t really singing,” said Ruthie. “I just hummed a little.”

Mang Ben died a few days later. He is survived by his children, grandchildren, and his many wonderful books.

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Postscript. I remembered this story, which appeared in a different draft in my old blog, when I heard that the fabulous Gilda had had a minor heart attack. She’s fine, of course; the woman is indestructible.

As for the other participants in the tale: Tina is reading the complete works of Mary Wesley, Ambeth recently finished his term as chair of the National Commission on Culture and the Arts, Danton writes a column in this paper, and RayVi is raising his son, Juan.

Ruthie, who tried to make like Steve McQueen in Bullitt at the mall, died of cancer on October 24, 2002. On the occasion of her fifth death anniversary later this month, we plan to have dinner at some grotty Chinese restaurant that fulfills Ruthie’s definition of good food: it makes tears roll down your face and snot come out of your nose.

I don’t know what happened to Ruthie’s car. I assumed it was sold for junk. Several months ago I spotted a car that looked just like it, sputtering along EDSA, and I started laughing like a madman.

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