ago … a little more?”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“He’s always traveling,” Edilberto said. “I’m taking him to the airport, usually, or to some bars.” This wasn’t really an answer, but Benicio didn’t push it. Things had been better since the funeral, but it was vintage fucking Dad to go on some last-minute trip the day Benicio arrived. “It’s always tough for families,” Edilberto said, as though reading his mind, poorly. “I travel a lot also. Not like you or your father, but … away. My family lives very far. It’s hard for my wife and for my daughters.”
The word
daughters
surprised Benicio. He must have at least three or four years on Edilberto, who’d apparently gone from boy right to family man. Benicio felt self-consciously young by comparison. “Where do they live?” he asked.
“In Cebu. Cebu City, it’s on an island to the south. Capital of Cebu province. That’s also a very big city.”
“As big as Manila?”
“No city’s as big as Manila, sir.” Edilberto smiled and adjusted his rearview mirror to get a better look into the backseat. They pulled up onto an overpass and soared above small concrete houses and palms. From this vantage Benicio saw people on the steps of huddled dwellings, ramshackle satellite dishes hanging off of corrugated roofs, and flashing neon signs above open doorways. They descended onto a road with no real lane markings that ran parallel to elevated light-rail tracks. A blue train passed them, lit from the inside and packed to bursting. Up ahead was a skyline that Benicio recognized from pictures his fatherhad sent. “Is that Makati?” he asked, gesturing toward the brightness ahead.
“Yes, sir. And that one,” Edilberto pointed to a pink building near the edge of the cluster, “is the Shangri-La.” Benicio looked at the building and imagined his father as a speck in one of its many distant lighted windows. “Makati’s a good place. If you like some nice restaurants and bars, they’re all close by. You just let me know, I can show you the bars. You like karaoke?”
“I thought that was a Japanese thing?”
Edilberto contorted his face into a comic look of disapproval. “Japanese are very bad singers. But Filipinos have beautiful voices. Me especially.”
Benicio laughed at this and Edilberto grinned again. Entering Makati gave him the impression of entering deep woods out of a grassland. They turned onto a wide avenue lined with magnificent trees with lights slung about their trunks. Well-dressed mannequins gazed out from expensive-looking storefronts. The towering, grayish-pink Shangri-La hotel loomed just ahead, and as they pulled up to the entrance two armed guards approached and greeted Edilberto with cool nods. One of them walked all around the car shining a mirror-on-wheels at its underbelly while the other inspected the trunk and under the hood. When the guards were done they each gave a thumbs-up and waved the car through. Edilberto drove on, stopping finally at the enormous glass doors of the hotel. Benicio took out his wallet, unsure about the difference between a polite tip and overkill.
“Thank you, Edilberto,” he said, erring on the side of overkill.
“Please sir, just Berto.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned around, accepting the wadded bills without looking at them, and deftly shaking Benicio’s now empty hand. “It’s very good to meet you, sir. Just let me know if you want me to take you someplace. Sometimes guests want to go to the pearl market, or to lunch at Tagaytay. Maybe they want to know where to meet nice friends, or where to have a party.” He paused and stared at Benicio for a moment before continuing. “Just ask for Berto, sir, and if it’s my shift then I’m very happy.”
Before Benicio had a chance to respond a bellboy opened his doorand welcomed him to the Shangri-La Makati. He insisted on wheeling Benicio’s suitcase and escorted him past more guards with sniffing dogs,
“Do you know where he is now?”
“He’s always traveling,” Edilberto said. “I’m taking him to the airport, usually, or to some bars.” This wasn’t really an answer, but Benicio didn’t push it. Things had been better since the funeral, but it was vintage fucking Dad to go on some last-minute trip the day Benicio arrived. “It’s always tough for families,” Edilberto said, as though reading his mind, poorly. “I travel a lot also. Not like you or your father, but … away. My family lives very far. It’s hard for my wife and for my daughters.”
The word
daughters
surprised Benicio. He must have at least three or four years on Edilberto, who’d apparently gone from boy right to family man. Benicio felt self-consciously young by comparison. “Where do they live?” he asked.
“In Cebu. Cebu City, it’s on an island to the south. Capital of Cebu province. That’s also a very big city.”
“As big as Manila?”
“No city’s as big as Manila, sir.” Edilberto smiled and adjusted his rearview mirror to get a better look into the backseat. They pulled up onto an overpass and soared above small concrete houses and palms. From this vantage Benicio saw people on the steps of huddled dwellings, ramshackle satellite dishes hanging off of corrugated roofs, and flashing neon signs above open doorways. They descended onto a road with no real lane markings that ran parallel to elevated light-rail tracks. A blue train passed them, lit from the inside and packed to bursting. Up ahead was a skyline that Benicio recognized from pictures his fatherhad sent. “Is that Makati?” he asked, gesturing toward the brightness ahead.
“Yes, sir. And that one,” Edilberto pointed to a pink building near the edge of the cluster, “is the Shangri-La.” Benicio looked at the building and imagined his father as a speck in one of its many distant lighted windows. “Makati’s a good place. If you like some nice restaurants and bars, they’re all close by. You just let me know, I can show you the bars. You like karaoke?”
“I thought that was a Japanese thing?”
Edilberto contorted his face into a comic look of disapproval. “Japanese are very bad singers. But Filipinos have beautiful voices. Me especially.”
Benicio laughed at this and Edilberto grinned again. Entering Makati gave him the impression of entering deep woods out of a grassland. They turned onto a wide avenue lined with magnificent trees with lights slung about their trunks. Well-dressed mannequins gazed out from expensive-looking storefronts. The towering, grayish-pink Shangri-La hotel loomed just ahead, and as they pulled up to the entrance two armed guards approached and greeted Edilberto with cool nods. One of them walked all around the car shining a mirror-on-wheels at its underbelly while the other inspected the trunk and under the hood. When the guards were done they each gave a thumbs-up and waved the car through. Edilberto drove on, stopping finally at the enormous glass doors of the hotel. Benicio took out his wallet, unsure about the difference between a polite tip and overkill.
“Thank you, Edilberto,” he said, erring on the side of overkill.
“Please sir, just Berto.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned around, accepting the wadded bills without looking at them, and deftly shaking Benicio’s now empty hand. “It’s very good to meet you, sir. Just let me know if you want me to take you someplace. Sometimes guests want to go to the pearl market, or to lunch at Tagaytay. Maybe they want to know where to meet nice friends, or where to have a party.” He paused and stared at Benicio for a moment before continuing. “Just ask for Berto, sir, and if it’s my shift then I’m very happy.”
Before Benicio had a chance to respond a bellboy opened his doorand welcomed him to the Shangri-La Makati. He insisted on wheeling Benicio’s suitcase and escorted him past more guards with sniffing dogs,
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