Herself (26 page)

Was an indescribably funny news clip abt a F. man attacked by another who had cut off his testicles. Yng man “disgustedly” retrieved same from garbage can where thrown, ambulance called, and testicles were sewn back on, but last statement of victim, “What’s the use?”

In talking of Nakpil (Carmen) I said heard she was convent-bred—this seemed to breed female satirists, as with M. McCarthy. A glint of amusement in his eye, and again, of amusement when I said I had talked so much this tour, was thinking of taking a vow of silence, and getting rather doubtful of myself as I heard me being inexcusably glib. He quickly interpolated—“a very necessary and useful thing.” Apologized for not knowing my work—Barnsley who was with us and had not said one word, asked about novel—I said its locale was “in the mind”—and added, or muttered, “a safe place.”

Also we talked abt students of previous night—I indicated I thought too many middle-aged grant-getters were taking their share. Bohlen obviously interested in my reports on the Question and Answer business I had made to work on Japs, also in that I was going to meet Senator Claro Recto on my own own request. Upshot—asked me to dine informally with him and wife—only day we both had free was tonight, if dinner is not planned after the Iowa writer’s meeting. Hope not—hope can dine with them—as certainly wd like to see more of the A., and have learned from somewhere that wife is in his class too.

Sent back to Hotel, almost exactly opposite embassy, by car, because “Dewey Blvd is hard to cross” said Barnsley, and it is—and because no one walks, including me. At 5:46 Fred Morales called to have me dine “informally with him and wife.” I safely in black—not sure of informality. They have very handsome suburban walled house—rather a F. version of Stegners’—as he teased later, wife, is top dentist in F.—which allows him to be a professor. He delighted that I liked Diaz, who is his pet, also Christobal. I asked if I cd help get them to States—he said of course if I dropped a word to Bohlen. Dunne, who is new, and whom I’d asked;, said it was all done by committees and he didn’t know how to see that I cd help—though obviously he wanted to help me do it. (Nice guy, former Fulbright in France, literature. Short, about 28, Southern but not egregiously so, nice features with long curly eyelashes—my height makes these unavoidably evident. Have told him abt C.—decided to because I wanted to—nice to talk about him with some one—explaining that the “husband” in all the newspaper articles about me was not the one I was going to join in Tabriz.)

Morning and rainy. Wrote the above just now. Pace has increased here, more people want to meet, so a lot of spaces in itinerary, originally blank, have been filled. Cd not dine with Ambassador and probably will not see again, since our programs will not allow.

Back to the Morales house. … Fed sherry and “atis”—custard apple. Looks like a hand grenade. Delicate flavor, many seeds about size of watermelon seeds—meat bland, more like mango than papaya, very good. (Fruits are in incredible profusion here and they make ices and ice creams of all of them—many new to us.) Two other guests, one a very shy man whose name I did not catch—writer of the ’30s, old friend of Fred M.’s. (Later Fred told me that his shyness—came to restaurant with us but not theater—was caused by second guest, Dr. Alzona, since she is upper class, he not.)

Dr. Alzona was at first incredibly charming—a tiny bluestocking (Ph.D. Radcliffe, studied at Harvard and other grad. schools—history)—with her dainty, wizened brown face, I took her to be in sixties, but she might be younger—told me she was in mourning for her recently deceased mother—encased in the beautiful high-draped folds of a black tulle mestiza. This style is infinitely flattering to all—even old crones look elegant—their matchstick shoulders swirled with clouds of net. How much nicer than the styles which at home often decree that the boniness of age, or just thinness, must nevertheless be revealed. She has traveled widely, though before the war. Father an attorney—she is of the older Spanish-oriented generation, I imagine, like Recto. Very Civic conscious—very involved on innumerable committees, and probably a pillar of high life here—as we drove to restaurant I heard her gossiping with Belen Morales, in the back seat, like any club lady. Belen is plump, downright, nice as can be—a devoted gourmet cook—gave me recipe for chicken adobo, and was delighted to hear how to roast a turkey in a bag. (Aluminum foil is expensive here—though the M.’s appear to have plenty of money.)

We dined in Chinatown, my first taste of Peking-style, since U.S.A. is all Cantonese. Very good—innumerable dishes, shrimp in sherry and in shells, hot spiced beef in shreds, the steamed bread—like dough half-baked and no crust. Etc. Later Fred took us to the “Manila Grand Opera Theatre”—half apologizing, half eager for me to see low-life theater—and right he was.

No opera, it is actually a kind of “Palladium” music hall, vaudeville or what you will. One long feature-movie, American, just ending as we came in. A very large theater—crammed to roof. We saw a 3-act play, hr. or so in length, in Tagalog. Tale of infidelity in their equiv. of a penthouse—three comic servants—a fairy, a Chinese, and a dwarf about the size of a six-yr-old child. The Filos dislike and fear the growth of the Chinese community—merchant class which controls most of the retail trade in the islands, keeps to itself, used to intermarry but now does not, maintains its own schools and does not take out citizenship. This hotel, the newest, is owned by one, tho not, alas for me, managed by them apparently. Manager is named Covarrubias. Chinatown is one of the oldest quarters—still use vehicles out of another age—looked like a high barouche or fiacre to me—seats about two—horse drawn, very high wheels. Relic certainly of the sixties or not much later—one cd imagine ladies of their Spanish period, leaning out of them. Only vehicle usable in Islands during last war, Fred said—called “calesas.”

The whole quarter lacks the, neatness of San Fr. Chinatown; this is tropic slum-style. Vendors, seated at braziers, selling hot-anonymities every where, the eternal profferers of lottery tickets, Amer. cigs, pearls—usually two big and
very
anonymous ones half concealed in a piece of tissue paper in the vendor’s palm—much more insistent and serious than around the big hotels on Dewey Blvd.

The Tagalog play was a riot to them, and sometimes to me—farce-style one minute, melodrama the next—husband finally knifes wife while tangoing with her, then shoots himself. Rest of program included a very smartly done modern dance jazz ballet—Fred told me that the girls had adopted mod. musical comedy undress, etc., only recently, since the tour, some months ago, of Katharine Dunham! (So, Dunham, who started out with us as an “ethnic” dancer on a Rosenwald fellowship, is now having the reverse of ethnic effect here!) Last number was a soprano who has done a version of Carmen in Tagalog, but also appears on pop. stage. Opening chorus however was “Stout-hearted Men”—the “Mounties” number usually done at home by chorus boys virilely effeminate in Canadian M. uniforms. Here, done by Filo version of, in uniforms half military police, half I dunno. Also on program—an Amer. Negro—F. said he would be returned G.I, Crooner—sang in both languages, very appreciated by crowd. As to the fairy servant in the play—F. said they are quite Elizabethan abt that sort of humor here.

And so home, after a pineapple sherbet at a coffee shop—how they like sweets! And to bed, unable to scrape from my mind the picture of the two little boys who stood to watch us as, emerging from F.’s little Br. car, not an elaborate one, we crossed the road, no more than a half-paved muddy ditch, to the theater. They were possibly wanting to watch the car, or just to watch us—but unlike the kids in our slum districts (“Watch your car mister, watch your car!”) there was no impudence. Our “poor” are nothing like these. There was a solemnity, a deep inborn awareness of difference and of resignation to it. I could not pass, and I could not give them money, which I wd have done if alone (even knowing the hopelessness of that—a sop to my conscience) because Fred had ignored them or rather passed them with a tiny shake of the head—embarrassed perhaps that he had to, in the company of the American.

Now, I must to lunch with Carmen Nakpil—and still yesterday to recount. Will send this on.

(Dear C:

Your journal, so welcome, came from Italy. I am well. Only three weeks now.

Meanwhile, this Sunday I fly down to Cebu and Dumaguete, southerly from here I think. No railroad, and no time for car.

Everything so quick. I look down at a blue bruise on my knee and think, wherever did that come from, then recall that it matches a hole made in my stocking when I fell down the step at Keio U.—way back there, another country, another civilization—and only a week ago. And you must be feeling the same.

Social pace continues fast here. More soon from H’kong or B’kok. I miss you.

Love from me.

H.)

Mailed journal to C. yesterday, and have forgotten where I left off. When one adheres to a schedule one has not cooked up for oneself, the days tend to blur. Where was I?

Well, Wednesday noon, went to visit Claro Recto (Senator), Possessor of the largest legal practice in the P.I., he is also one of the fast-fading Spanish-oriented generation. Handsome offices. He is also reverenced by the intellectual element among the younger Nationalists—there are rumors that he was a J. “puppet,” but Bohlen said he had heard nothing to substantiate this. Meeting him—he is cagy, vain, intelligent, a wary old lion in his own concept, perhaps his legal mind wd inhibit any real breadth of thought, though he has the breadth of manner that comes from long dealings with many meetings with the “important” etc.

Of course he had no real idea why I was there, nor I—I cd not make him “give” though I pranced about conversationally from several tacks, even giving my best imitation of a silly woman in order to draw him out. Rather fazed me by saying that he always ended up by “interviewing the interviewer”—since of course I do the same. Had a quote from Toynbee under a glass on one of his desks in the anteroom where we waited for him—something to the effect that it is useless for a patriot to die for his country if the country dies with him in a last grand and glorious—etc. From Toynbee,—he wd not commit himself—I got him on to Russell, or rather he got me, and seemed to agree that R., whom I said I admired more, was the clearer writer. I mentioned that T. was a Jungian—no response. Showed me a sort of style dictionary—Updike—from there I tried him on Fowler, little response. Asked me if I had read
Zorba the Greek—
Kazantkakis—hadn’t alas. Neither of us got much out of our “interviews.”

Took Bill and Morales to the Overseas Press Club, where B. had kindly got me a press card. Then rested briefly before driving out to U.P. again to record story on tape—I did “In the Absence.” They played it back and I tried not to listen, rather horrified at my voice, which comes over “urban-sophisticated” and rather “superior” in tone. Clipped. Not right for that story. Then to the Ateneo, Loyola Heights—the Jesuit college. Father Bernad, the head, writes for their journal,
Phil. Studies
, leading Catholic scholar in town apparently, as well as of course one of leading Catholics. Was determined to give it to them within terms of courtesy, and did. Wish I had tape of
that!
Can’t remember all, but did emphasize that artist’s voice must be “single”—no labels of
any
kind—said this in one way or other several times. Said Artist was comb. of arrogance and humility—for duration of creating his “world” he must believe in his own judgment—but only for moment—Humility is that of the search. All great and good artists interested in moral values—but must; be unhampered in search for them.

One student asked typical Jesuit query, “Which is better, good ideas written badly, or bad ideas written well.” Answered—what did he mean by “good” and “bad”?

At this point Father B., who remained on platform next to me at all times, started explaining
me
. This, in the pleasantest way (I think), I wd not tolerate.

He said he “thought I wd agree” that a book abt a murderer, approving same, wd not be a valuable book.

I replied, “Ah that’s too black-and-white a way of putting it; a book by one of the greatest novelists in the world, Dostoevski, is about a murderer, who, though not “approved” is so presented that we “understand,” and no one who reads it can ever fail to understand the little spark of murder that we may carry about in our hearts.”

It went on like this, and thanks to the practice of recent days I was able to do right well.

Was asked by student whether the “sordid” should be portrayed? Went to town on that—said although I wasn’t sure what he meant by “sordid,” certainly what I presumed he meant was a part of life—the human condition was of all kinds and had to be so represented, otherwise we get a glossy, sentimental 19th c. etc., etc. And worse—or rather better. Was asked what Student shd read. I said—“Everything.” Forget what Father B.’s comment was—again an attempt to “explain” or qualify me.

I turned to him and said: “Father, I believe one must be allowed to read everything—without censorship of any kind.” How else to form taste and judgment? Said that “some people” when they thought of liberty of expression immediately thought of license—I thought rather that liberty implied self-control; latter came only from it.

Was asked whether writers came more from lower classes, didn’t I think so? Again took off—said we did not have div. quite in the upper-lower way they had—rather one long, gray middle. Laughter on this. Said we had poor, but fewer so poor as here—our differences in class were economic, but mainly we were a middle-class nation.

One of the Irish Fathers, at the tea and cakes we had after, said, rather worriedly that it was “a good experience for the boys.” How regimented they were, standing up politely—all thru the question, clapping when signaled! Only place I was asked for autographs. Bill D. said after he was sorry he wasn’t present; Sam Capistrano, his ass’t, a Fil. of Baptist descent, had reported all in high glee.