Dogeaters by Jessica Hagedorn Read Free Book Online Page B

beautiful?” Andres moans, taking one last look before putting away his snapshots in a treasure chest of souvenirs he preserves in the mini-fridge under the counter. I don’t respond.
    “He could look like Valentino, dressed to the nines as a man,” Andres would reminisce dreamily. “Those were the days! We’d go to town and have dinner with my friends. Then—off to the nightclubs! I even took him home to meet my parents. ‘Mama, Papa—meet Eugenio Villarosa, son of Dr. Epifanio Villarosa of Cebu,’ I said, making it up as I went along. My father shook his hand. ‘I’m sure I know your father,’ he said, Mama nodding her head in agreement. They never suspected a thing, invited him to stay for dinner…” Andres shakes his head slowly. “I tried to get him in the movies, but failed. That’s what he wanted most of all—to be a movie star in one of those Mabuhay musicals. He got so jealous of me and my cameos. ‘I can sing and dance better than any woman!’ He would say. Poor darling. Mabuhay Studios knew his true identity, and wouldn’t give him a chance.”
    They were Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, winning first prize in all the dance contests. It’s all true. I’ve seen pictures of Andres grinning like a fool next to a deadpan Eugenio/Eugenia, now dressed as a woman, both of them holding up trophies and awards. Their stormy love affair lasted on and off for two years. When Andres failed to land him a movie contract, Eugenio/Eugenia left the apartment they shared without warning. It happened right after the Japs occupied Manila. Eugenio/Eugenia disappeared without a trace and was never heard from again. Andres is heartbroken to this day. “There are rumors,” he once said, “so many rumors. He was in Macao, singing in a nightclub. Consorting with a Japanese General. Working as a spy for British Intelligence, smuggling bullets in his brassiere. Captured by Chinese guerrillas and executed for alleged war crimes: Can you imagine? They must’ve died when the autopsy was performed—”
    “Autopsy?” Andres likes to impress me with big English words.
    “Idiot! Aren’t you always watching TV?” he roars impatiently. “Those cop shows you’re so crazy about—they’re always having autopsies performed on dead people to see why they died!” Andres takes a deep breath, then calms down. “What the hell, Joey. I believe all the tsismis about him. He was absolutely capable of anything. He had no morals. The last rumor I heard is probably closest to the truth: that he is very much alive, still living in Macao as a woman, married to some wealthy Portuguese.”
    I toast the memory of the hermaphrodite. “To the love of your life, El Professor—”
    Andres nods, finishing his brandy. “To love, period —” he adds, grimly.
    When I’m not at the bar, I stay in all day, sleeping. I love to sleep. I could sleep for ten, twelve hours at a time. I come alive at twilight, refreshed by my sleep and the cooling effects of the oncoming darkness, the setting sun. I’m energized and electric, a vampire ready for action.
    “Night time / is the right / time,” as the old song goes, if I’m not with some stranger whose name I have to strain to remember. It’s a surprise, waking up like I do, trying to make out the form asleep beside me. Frantically assembling little details in my mind, so I can remember something, anything. So I can say the right thing, collect my money, and say goodbye. Sometimes it’s pleasant—waking up like I do, in fancy hotel rooms with clean sheets and the air conditioner always on. What I like best is waking up alone in bachelor apartments—the kind rich guys rent in Makati—surrounded by invisible servants, elaborate stereo systems, bottles of imported cologne and aftershave arranged in gleaming bathrooms Andres would die for, my money waiting for me in an envelope discreetly left on a table near the front door. My steady clients, my one-night stands. Some more thoughtful than