The writers’ workshop was just concluded. I was temporarily staying at André’s place with Andre still around but was packing. She was to go on leave for a doctoral degree in June and we were extemporizing about how either of us could be useful to each other’s emergencies. She was struggling to break loose or at least get a vacation from the drudgery of a marriage that momentarily fixed her there, in a house by the sea with a crumbly kitchen, and a husband who was rather busier with giving bohemian girls-friends free backrides than bringing home the bacon if you believe in tales about men bringing home bacons.
I just came back from a one-month gruel, a research for a health project to be implemented in the slums of Jolo and was still feeling my way around the idea that I shall be overseeing someone else’s thatched roof, one hobo husband, and a mangy dog somewhere down the kitchen. When here came Viktor, crawling in, his back heavy with a pack of books and maybe a few shirts.
He didn’t scratch his head or his genitals this time as he talked so, in fact he looked so decent and smelled right I felt like praying to God to bless his soul, and he said that he and Sawi had a little quarrel, thanks to the writers’ workshop that ended in a disaster of sorts. Sawi fell for this girl from the high urbs who seemed to fancy him, too. If he wasn’t another idiot, Viktor said. “Imagine leaving a girl to a bottle of beer?”
Then over and above that there was Mikki, he said. On their way home from the fellows’ party where he and Viktor mostly sat in a corner, Mikki teased him. “Guess, who danced with all the girls at the party?” Sawi cracked up that he challenged Mikki to a fight. Mikki went down on his knees, on the mud, if Viktor was not exaggerating, and clasped his hands and went “You know that I worship you, you know that I worship you.”
And that was not all.
Later that same week a friend called Grace materialized at Sawi’s door. Sawi told Viktor to clear away, and so Viktor kept to his room and let Sawi take care of Grace. A few minutes later, Sawi excused himself and went back to bed to catch some sleep. When he woke up he caught Viktor and Grace talking about old times, rather enjoying themselves. The misunderstanding with Mikki had hardly blown over and the fellows were gone but just a few days, so for a poor heart it was rather too many to handle. So Viktor thought it was best to stay away awhile, let the moment pass. André found it all so amusing and so she readily agreed, glad to be of help to the crazy poets she was rather fond of. She gave Viktor the veranda, an open-air affair of nipa roofing, bamboo walls and flooring adjoined to the main house, also an incendiary affair of nipa shingles, clapboards, and squeaky floor.
He did go back home to Sawi’s place after a few days leaving André a duffle of books. By then I had gotten into an arrangement with André. The two children were already taken to Diutay’s parents somewhere in Bacolod, Diutay would be traveling a lot between the children in Bacolod and the house and the job he held in the archives of Silliman U Lib. There was the dog to feed and the house to tend, so it would be nice if someone was there the days Diutay was away. I was given a room. It was a tacky situation: people so kind and you eat at their table and sleep close to them. Then André left and Diutay went to the children in Bacolod. Then he came home and we played housemates, he doing the cooking, I the dishwashing.
Then one uncanny morning that Diutay was away, I saw Viktor coming this way, knapsack on his back. And it felt like, Lord, the plot thickens!
High on marijuana, he jumped off from Sawi's back window landing straight into the neighbor's garden and ruining her precious ilang-ilang. The neighbor demanded eviction since he looked like he could not afford compensation. “Can I stay here awhile, Sheil? I’ll just sleep in here,” he said, indicating the bamboo divan in the veranda. When Diutay checked out on his property, of course, he was surprised there was another man in the house, though since I told Viktor early on to explain his presence, as I would not take that trouble, they did get on fine for a while. Well, the three of us did get on fine for a while, especially when Diutay played my Bob Dylan tapes, but with the three of us on our nerves’ ends most days, with money running and with sister, wife, or donor angry at the other ends of our lines, we wanted to bash each other’s skull half the time. Or at least, I wanted to bash their skulls more than half of the time. How Viktor slunk along the walls the days I left the dishes slanting on the sink.
A letter came through the wires that had the women in the English department shaking their heads. In the house by the sea, the rice bin was going empty, the dog, prone to manginess to begin with, was going unwashed as one great freeloading backriding housesitting guest took to low life and went staying out of the house as often as she could, in the company of faggots at that. Then Tonton, another once infamous poet-bum, reappeared, though thankfully this time, from rock-climbing and doing some local tourism beat for a newspaper in Cebu. So it was his turn to ask, “And have you eaten?” and took me later on to a dinner of kinilaw and sinigang.
“Did you know,” he said to me, while we were sitting at Andre's porch, “that one time I had to cut a neighbor's banana tree without asking their permission because for days I had nothing to eat?” I got so furious at that that I walked out of the house holding his hand and shouting, “I am walking with Kafka! I am walking with Kafka!” Our good-woman neighbor, seemingly happy that I had a rather good-looking long-haired canestalk of a boyfriend after all, smiled at us. We sat the night out at the boulevard, back to back. I came home in the morning with the house in a shamblier shambles and the wooden posts that held the room I was sleeping in hacked in several places. On the ledge of a closet a bolo was laid.
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