Monstress (16 page)

At the Parkdale, he began taking lunch with Althea. Fortunado would catch them by the loading docks sitting together on upturned crates, sharing the butter-and-olive sandwiches she packed each day. If she worked late, Vicente insisted on waiting for her, and together they would walk to their cable car stop. Their supervisor warned them about fraternizing among staff, guests stared and whispered, but Vicente always said it: “We're not afraid.”

Fortunado said nothing, swore he never would.

The heat of the summer stayed through the fall. One late Sunday night, Fortunado, Vicente, and Althea sat at a corner table in the Manila Rose Cantina beneath a slow-moving ceiling fan, trying to cool themselves with glasses of pilsner. They drank in silence, ordered more pitchers than they could finish, and when they were done Fortunado was light-headed; he could see drops of sweat fall onto the paper-covered tabletop. He hadn't felt this warm since Stockton, during those noonday hours in the fields.

Althea undid her scarf, dabbed her face and neck. “Let's go to the Dive,” she said, “the three of us.” Except to clean it, employees were forbidden by Parkdale policy to be near the hotel's pool, and it was close to midnight now, long past its closing. But then Althea pulled a set of keys from her purse and jangled them in the air; three times a week she collected towels from the changing rooms, and she had gone for a quick, late-night swim before. “No one will see us,” she said. “No one will know.”

T
hey entered like trespassers, went down the back stairs to the pool. Their footsteps echoed as they walked along its blue-tiled perimeter, and the water's surface shimmered green from the lights below.

Vicente and Althea undressed and left their clothes in a neat pile on the floor. They were naked and unashamed; they had been this way before. Althea entered the pool and Vicente followed, and together they swam out, resurfacing in the deep end.

Fortunado removed his clothes. He descended the three steps into the pool, the water rising slowly to his waist, his chest. He whispered Vicente's name but heard no answer, so Fortunado took a breath and held it, submerged. He moved forward, opened his eyes, and in the watery haze he finally found Vicente, swimming beneath the surface. He had seen his body before—when he changed out of uniform at the hotel, or barged into his room to borrow a shirt—but never like this, so bare and open, arms held out as if to welcome him, to beckon. Underwater, they were the only two, with no world above to interfere, so Fortunado moved closer, unafraid. But he mistook buoyancy for the ability to swim; suddenly there was no floor beneath him, and as he sank he reached and kicked, as though trying to climb water.

It took both Vicente and Althea to bring Fortunado back to the surface, to the safety of the shallow end. They held his arms but he swiped them away, then staggered out of the pool, coughing with each breath. “I'm fine,” he said, and as he gathered his clothes, he watched Vicente and Althea swim away, then disappear in a depth he would never brave again.

They finished swimming, dried themselves and dressed, hurried to the stairwell. But Vicente and Althea continued past the lobby toward the upper floors. They had planned to collect unfinished bottles of wine left outside guests' doors, and drink them in the Berlin Deluxe. “I'll see you back at the hotel,” Vicente said.

“When?” Fortunado asked.

“Later tonight.” Vicente looked at Althea. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“You're not supposed to be there.”

“No one will see us,” Vicente said. “And so what if they do?”

Vicente stood four steps above but he seemed much farther, and Fortunado kept his hand tight on the rail, as if letting go meant falling. “You're not supposed to be there,” he said again.

Vicente took one step down, reached for Fortunado's shoulder. “Go home,” he said. Then he and Althea left, their footsteps growing fainter as they continued up the stairs.

Fortunado exited the stairwell into the empty lobby. He left the Parkdale, and walked down the long hill of Powell Street toward Manilatown. It was early Monday morning. Kearny Street was deserted. Buses had ended their run, no autos drove past, and the one other person on the street was the old Filipino sitting on his top step, staring longingly at the moon.

He entered the I-Hotel, went up to his room. He stood by his window and stared out at the blank billboard on the rooftop across, thinking about Vicente and Althea in the Berlin Deluxe, beholders of a view he could barely imagine.

O
ne night a week in the Berlin Deluxe became two, sometimes three, and Vicente and Althea remained undetected. They would arrive after midnight and leave before dawn, then return in uniform to the Parkdale only hours later, ready to work. But these nights left Vicente tired, which made him tardy, and Fortunado would cover for him with flimsy excuses—a stomachache one morning, a toothache the next. Weeks of this passed, and Fortunado was done. “I won't lie for you anymore,” he told Vicente. They were on the seventh floor of the Parkdale, waiting for the elevator.

“Sorry, Nado.” Vicente yawned, rubbing his eyes. “I'll wake up earlier next time.”

“
Next time
. Have you gone crazy? What if the boss finds you there? Or the police? What do you think they'll do to you if they find you with a white girl? This is your life, Vicente.”

“The police can shoot me. Throw me in jail. I'm not afraid, either way.” The elevator arrived, and they entered. “That room is good for Althea and me. A man and a woman deserve their own place.”

“You're the bellboy. She's the maid. You don't live there. There's not even a bed.”

“We don't
need
a bed.” Vicente winked, then gave Fortunado a quick punch to the arm.

“Don't,” Fortunado said.

Vicente laughed, tousled his hair, hit him again. “Stop,” Fortunado said, and Vicente smiled, made another fist. But now it was Fortunado who threw a punch, one so strong that Vicente stumbled backwards, and Fortunado hit him again. Vicente got to his feet, pushed Fortunado against the wall and held him there, his hands on his collar, knuckles grazing his neck. They had not been this close for years.

“We kissed,” Fortunado said. He held on to Vicente's wrists, aching to tell more: how he slept close to the wall just to hear him breathing on the other side; how he kept the tickets from the Dreamland in his pocket at all times, a memento from the night they met; how home could only be wherever Vicente was. But more words felt like drowning, so he took a breath and repeated the one thing he knew to be an undisputable truth. “We kissed.”

Vicente freed his hands from Fortunado's. “Once,” he said. There was no anger in his voice or on his face, only apology.

The elevator reached the lobby. The doors opened and Vicente stepped out, then closed again. Fortunado had never struck a person before, but there were times in his life he wondered what it might be like, and now he knew: the force of everything you are in a single gesture at a single moment; the hope that it will be enough and the fear that it won't. No different than a kiss.

T
he protest was fading. Fortunado lay on his side facing the window, the room like a dream: for a moment, he could believe that a final night never passed, and a life in the I-Hotel never happened.
What if,
he wondered,
that was someone else?
But then he felt the slight shift of Vicente's body against his own, and Fortunado wiped his eyes and rose from the bed, put on his coat.

He gently shook Vicente's shoulder. Vicente turned toward him, blinked until he was awake.

There was no sledgehammer, no kick to the door; it simply opened, and in the hallway two officers stood, arms at their sides and no weapons in hand. “We're under orders to evict you,” one of them said. “Please come with us.”

Vicente stared at them, one fist closed and ready. “I don't like police,” he whispered.

“They're here to help us,” he said.

“We did nothing wrong.”

“I know.” Fortunado helped Vicente to his feet, then picked up the suitcase and led him to the door. As they passed the dresser, he reached for the envelope marked with their names, and tucked it into Vicente's coat pocket.

They stepped into the hallway. Protest signs and posters were litter now, and chains dangled from the banister and exposed pipes. An officer stood by Fortunado's door, knocked twice, then opened it. “No one here,” he said. “That's everyone.”

They descended the stairs, moved carefully past small desks and mattresses in their path. They reached the lobby, stepped over wood planks and broken glass, and as they crossed the fallen door of the front entrance, Fortunado took Vicente's hand. “Don't let go,” he said, then led the way out of the I-Hotel.

A
fter the fight in the elevator, Vicente spent more nights with Althea in the Berlin Deluxe, returning to the I-Hotel only for a change of clothes. At the Parkdale, Fortunado worked the front entrance as often as he could, and whenever Vicente approached he would steer his luggage cart in another direction; after work, Fortunado would rush out to catch the next cable car back home. One night, waiting at his stop, he saw Vicente and Althea leave the Parkdale together, arms around one another as they walked down Powell Street. A light rain fell, and Vicente took off his jacket, draped it over her shoulders and held her close. They kissed.

“Disgraceful,” a man with a bushy, white mustache said. He looked over at Fortunado. “You're not foolish enough to try something like that, are you, boy?”

Fortunado turned away, toward lit windows high above, and said, “No.”

Hours later, alone on the third-floor fire escape of the I-Hotel, Fortunado drank through a bottle of Du Kang, remembering the kiss he shared with Vicente, how it happened in darkness, in silence. And he thought of Vicente and Althea's kiss on the sidewalk, so reckless and unhidden, which perhaps was the point: Fortunado understood how difficult love could be, how its possibility hinged on a delicate balance between complete anonymity and the undeniable need to be known.

He let the empty bottle of Du Kang roll off the fire escape, listened for the crash of glass. The night was freezing now, and he imagined Vicente and Althea in the window of the Berlin Deluxe, looking down upon the city, warm in each other's arms.

Vicente had no right to be there; the I-Hotel was where he belonged. There were rules in this world; why should Fortunado be the only one to suffer them?

He got to his feet, steadied himself. Then he climbed inside and went downstairs, walked out of the I-Hotel to a telephone booth on the corner. He stepped in, shivering as he dialed.

The Parkdale's night operator answered.

Strangers where they didn't belong, he finally said. A couple—Filipino man, white woman—hiding in the Berlin Deluxe. Hotel security could catch them. Hurry.

He hung up the receiver, stepped out of the booth. He headed toward Market, turned east toward the water, then walked along the Embarcadero, the Bay Bridge coming into view. It was finally finished, ready for use in a matter of weeks, and all year long advertisements had announced its opening.
Joining two cities!
one poster read.
Bringing the world together!
But tonight the bridge was dark and still untraveled, and the world felt more like the place it was, an endless earth in which Fortunado stood alone.

A man in a dark suit and hat approached. He stood beside Fortunado, put his hands on the rail. “Quite a bridge,” he said.

Fortunado nodded.

“Nice night, too.”

Fortunado looked at the fading moon. “It's almost morning.”

“There's still time,” the man said. Then, without asking, he took Fortunado's hand and whispered, “It's okay. I know a place.”

Fortunado looked around, checking for nearby police or anyone within earshot. When he knew it was safe, they moved away from the water to a darker, unnamed place that in daylight would be impossible to find again.

The warmth he felt inside this stranger was unquestionable and necessary, and each time it happened was meant to be the last. Now, Fortunado feared a lifetime of this and little more, and he wondered how long such a life could be.

T
he next morning Fortunado waited by his window for Vicente's return. The Parkdale would have fired Vicente, that was certain, and their security might have dragged him out of the room, down the back stairs, and thrown him into the street. When night came and he still had not returned, Fortunado picked the lock of Vicente's door, went inside, and lay on his bed. It was morning when he woke; another night without Vicente. He got up, smoothed the sheets over the mattress, and left the room as though he was never there.

At the Parkdale, none of the bellhops mentioned an incident in the Berlin Deluxe, and when Fortunado asked his boss if he had heard from Vicente, his boss said, “Maybe he had a toothache,” then closed his office door. Once, he stopped in front of the Berlin Deluxe, rattled the doorknob, and whispered Vicente's name. He listened for movement, for breath, but heard nothing. After work, he checked every store, restaurant, and bar in Manilatown, even searched the crowd at the Dreamland Saloon, but the one person he recognized was the ticket man with the cane. “I know you,” the old man said, and Fortunado left as quickly as he could.

Hours later, Fortunado made his way back home. When he reached the end of Kearny Street, he saw a light in Vicente's window.

He ran into the I-Hotel, up to the third floor. Without knocking he opened Vicente's door and found him sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He was still in his uniform. “They found us,” he said.

Fortunado stepped in, shut the door behind him. “When?”

“Two nights ago.” He lowered his head and told Fortunado the rest, like a confession. He and Althea were sleeping when hotel security and two police officers forced the door open. They brought him to his feet, pushed him against the wall, shouted questions they wouldn't let him answer—
You think you belong here?
Who do you think you are?
Althea stood in the corner, and Vicente told her not to be afraid, that nothing they did was wrong. “Then one of them, the bigger one, started shouting at her. The things he called her . . .” He shook his head. “So I hit him. As hard as I could.” He remembered Althea crying, then something smash against the back of his head, three times, maybe more. He remembered falling.