A commercial. An orchestral rendition of "Joy to the World" plays while images of mutilated hands, missing fingers, amputated limbs flash on the screen. "This holiday season," a man's voice says soberly, "please be safe when using firecrackers and fireworks. This has been a public service announcement from the Philippines First Corporation." I change the channel.

News headline emblazons the screen: JELLYFISH ATTACK!!! JELLYFISH ATTACK!!! The reporter says an underwater earthquake in the Celebes Sea caused a ma.s.sive movement of jellyfish upriver, which clogged a Mindanao hydroelectric plant and plunged the island group into a sudden blackout. Camera cuts to the scene. A colonel on location at the Rajah Tuwaang power plant explains, in broken but adamant English, that the blackout had nothing to do with Moro rebels. Behind him, soldiers shovel jellyfish into dump trucks. One heap towers at least eight feet. I change the channel. The reporter says an underwater earthquake in the Celebes Sea caused a ma.s.sive movement of jellyfish upriver, which clogged a Mindanao hydroelectric plant and plunged the island group into a sudden blackout. Camera cuts to the scene. A colonel on location at the Rajah Tuwaang power plant explains, in broken but adamant English, that the blackout had nothing to do with Moro rebels. Behind him, soldiers shovel jellyfish into dump trucks. One heap towers at least eight feet. I change the channel.

A crowd surrounds the besieged Changco home. Some look up at the news helicopter and shout unheard. A male voice-over reports that more than a thousand people with candles and sampaguita leis are singing songs and waving signs proclaiming their support for Wigberto Lakandula. One banner says: PYRAMID-SCHEME VICTIMS 4 LAKANDULA PYRAMID-SCHEME VICTIMS 4 LAKANDULA. Another: WIGGY, WE WIGGY, WE[image] YOU, MARRY US! YOU, MARRY US!-a.s.sUMPTION H.S. CLa.s.s OF 2004. Riot police have been called in to keep order. I change the channel.

An infomercial touts the Ped-Egg. A hand rubs it against a foot while a voice says, "It's perfect for boyfriend, for girlfriend, for mother, for father, for grandmum and grandpa, for sister, for brother ..." I change the channel.

Camera pans slowly over rice terraces of a mountain province. The slopes reach like a gla.s.sy ziggurat into the cloudless sky. A zoom onto a cl.u.s.ter of huts gives a perspective of how extensive the constructions are. Fade to an old Ifugao man, leathery-dark and toothless, speaking from inside the hut. He prepares betel nut while speaking, taking ingredients from a carved box. Subt.i.tles on the bottom of the screen: "An American once came and told me our terraces are the eighth wonder of the world. I only know this is how we cultivate rice. Our way, for four thousand years ..." I change the channel.

More news. Familiar image of Reverend Martin, preaching in a Burberry-plaid suit, cuts to an image of him being led from his mansion, surrounded by police, head down, facing away from the TV-camera lights and reporters with foamy microphones. He wears red silk pajamas. The voice-over says something in rapid Tagalog, which I hardly catch. Something about embezzlement in the El Ohim. The scroll across the bottom of the screen says the Phisix is down two points at closing today. I change the channel.

A concert at Araneta Coliseum of the country's "top fifty Elvis impersonators." All in identical bouffants, sungla.s.ses, and sequined jumpsuits, though comically varying in size and weight. Two are drag queens, bedecked in fishnets and blue suede high-heel shoes. I change the channel.

Chinese news. Something about Shanghai, static shots of the skyline, workmen and material being hoisted up on cranes. I change the channel.

Chief Justice Santos is speaking at a symposium. "At the heart of law is morality," he says. "But at the heart of morality is spirituality. Our faith in the Almighty is our best guide in interpreting the laws of man." I change the channel.

F1 racing, Montoya leading at Monza, Schumacher a close second on the penultimate lap. I change the channel.

News report about another bombing, in Mindanao. General Santos City. A reporter stands in the glare of camera lights, a twisted chunk of metal behind her. The wreckage was once a bus, she says. Twelve were killed and another twenty-two have been brought to a hospital. Scene cuts to Manila, to Senator Nuredin Bansamoro (un-a.s.suming, bespectacled, pomaded), surrounded by scowling subordinates. "This is the, ah, sixth bombing in a month. It is, ah, believed ... ," he says in very deliberate English, spitting out certain words with emphasis, "... believed to, uh, be, ah, perpetrated by, ah, the same cadre of dastardly scoundrels responsible for the, uh, Lotto and McDonald's bombings last week. To be sure, there are extremist members of the, ah, Abu Sayyaf network operating in these, ah, bicinities. Though we cannot, ah, be sure if there is a connection to the blasts in Metro Manila. I denounce reports that this is a precursor to, uh, a coup attempt. I have no comment on the rumors our, uh, dear president will inst.i.tute martial law. If I had to comment, I would say it is a bery bad idea because, uh, I for one will stand against-" I change the channel.

A pretty mestiza is rubbing Block & White deodorant into her underarms after she showers. Scene cuts to her in a sleeveless blouse, raising her hand confidently at a university lecture. Her darker-skinned seatmate looks envious before crossing her arms to hide her own armpits. Next scene shows the dark-skinned cla.s.smate applying the deodorant, followed by before and after photos. Her armpits are clearly lightened after "just a few weeks of regular application." I change the channel.

CNN: a program about last month's antiwar protests in Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, and Halifax. In Queen's Park, cops on horseback watch the crowd. A young man climbs on top of a Globe and Mail Globe and Mail newspaper box and takes off his ski jacket to reveal a shirt that says newspaper box and takes off his ski jacket to reveal a shirt that says WEAPON OF Ma.s.s DESTRUCTION WEAPON OF Ma.s.s DESTRUCTION. A mounted officer waves him down. The crowd shouts: "Get those animals off those horses!" The news ticker at the bottom of the screen says the Nasdaq and Dow Industrial are up. I change the channel.

A Portuguese nun discusses the beat.i.tudes, quoting from the Gospel of St. John. Blessed are the meek, she says. I change the channel.

A female presenter on the Weather Channel says the coming storm is very strange. I change the channel.

Taiwanese news. Guangdong province, People's Republic of China. A reporter wears a surgical mask in front of a hospital. Inside, two sallow patients lie in bed, gazing at the camera as if it could save them. I change the channel.

A live pan across a ma.s.sive crowd in Rizal Park, every person holding a candle and raising a hand in the gesture of born-again praise. It looks like a lazy fascist salute, or people at a karaoke party singing "Stop in the Name of Love." The commentator says a hundred thousand people have arrived in the two hours since Reverend Martin's arrest. Some hold banners that say PEACE PEACE or or HOPE HOPE. A reporter does a vox pop with a lady in the crowd. What brings you here? "My love for Reverend Martin, of course. The Apostle of the People." Why do you love him so? "He gives me strength to make it through each week. I used to be a drug addict and-" A man with big muscles leans over her shoulder to shout: "Me, I used to be gay!" Thunder crackles in the sky. Some in the crowd open umbrellas. Chanting is picked up in waves by the microphones and fills my hotel room. I change the channel.

A bulletin of tonight's top stories: "The Paul Watson Paul Watson, the flag-ship of the North American environmental group the World Wardens, remained docked today in Manila despite protests from the j.a.panese emba.s.sy after last week's collision with the whaling vessel Nisshin Maru Nisshin Maru. The Soldiers for Military Reform have been granted amnesty by President Estregan, though a spokesperson for the Lupas Landcorp's Gloriolla Mall-which SMR troops overran last year and threatened to blow up if their demands for bureaucratic transparency weren't met-says the corporation will pursue civil charges. The Chinese-Filipino community inaugurated a memorial in Binondo, a mult.i.tiered paG.o.da in remembrance of all the kidnap-for-ransom victims killed or never found. And in tonight's edition of In-Sight In-Sight, don't miss a special report on life in Olongapo and Angeles City, eleven years after the eruption of Mount Pinatubo and the closing of Clark and Subic bases. No longer home to the two largest American military installations outside the continental U.S., are we better off without them? Find out in 'From Dollars to Desert.'" I change the channel.

Lakbay-TV travel channel, opening credits: Ancient Cultures of Mindanao Ancient Cultures of Mindanao. A couple in intricate fabrics and headpieces. A sword brandished by the groom-prince, its blade voluptuously serrated. The bride, concealing her face with a fan, dances between two pairs of crossed bamboo poles clapped crisply together by attendants kneeling at her feet. The prince, his sword leaned on one shoulder and shield wielded firmly in the other hand, follows his bride, stepping in and out of the intermittent traps, the pace quickening rapidly. The bride steps back to watch her groom, his feet a blur among the wood cracking dangerously together. The hastening rhythm of the clack-clacking bamboo upon bamboo becomes hypnotic, like the rise to crescendo of Ravel's Bolero Bolero. I change the channel.

BBC World News: Chief UN Weapons Inspector Hans Blix is being interviewed, shaking his head, frustrated at what is being said about Saddam Hussein's Iraq. I change the channel.

One of those strange digital channels: in one corner of the screen, a music video from the Eraserheads, who sing about the unrequited love of a young girl from an exclusive college. On the rest of the screen are blinking text messages, updating in real time. Prettypinay89 writes: Hi 2 tropang Marikina! Gdluck 2 chem17 studnts of Phil Womns Schl with ur exams 2mrw. Gothgrrrrl3000 writes: Any1 here in2 deathmetal? Greyhounds rock! Eraserheads suck! And AnAk_Ng_KidlAt writes: Is any1 out there 2 hear me?

I turn the television off.

"One more thing," Crispin said. "One last story." He stared at the typewriter in front of him. "When you get to my age, the most insignificant memories take on significance. Unrationalized blame, casual kindnesses, random gestures-one day you just need to tell someone about them. There was this time, when I was a boy, when my father was consumed by jealousy." I already had on my parka and backpack. I was cradling the bundle of outgoing mail in one arm. "Papa had always coveted the zoo my uncle had on his farm. So he decided to get an animal of his own, but for our house in Manila. He wanted to impress my mother, as well as coax her into spending more time with him there than in Bacolod." I poured Crispin a gla.s.s of sherry; he looked up at me, nodded. "Of course, my father didn't know anything about animals. He just liked having them. He must have thought he could hire people. As one does. He wanted a tiger and somehow he got one. I don't know how, I was too young. I remember he kept it in a cage by the swimming pool, near the lanai where we had our meals when we ate outdoors. Actually, I think the tiger was there in Forbes Park because it was being transported to the farm at Swanee. I'm not sure anymore."

Crispin sipped his sherry. He still hadn't changed out of his ruined barong. Two black ma.n.u.script boxes were on the floor beside him. I leaned on the doorjamb and looked at my watch. Madison would be waiting at home with Valentine's Day dinner. This morning, to my dismay, she'd told me about finding a recipe for tofu Peking duck, and I still had to somehow find some gluten-free hoisin sauce. It had come to feel like our relationship counted on the successful fulfillment of such errands. I undid my scarf and unzipped my coat.

"Anyhow. At that time it was a big tiger to me. Huge. I think it must have been an adolescent, because the s.p.a.ce by the swimming pool and the lanai wasn't that big. Doesn't everything seem bigger when looking back? Well, I can only imagine what the neighbors thought. What arrogance, a tiger in your garden. Ha! Truly. Thing is, the d.a.m.n thing wouldn't eat. It was traumatized by the flight or the truck or however it had been transported. It was a mess. I'm not sure whether it was a he or a she, or what became of it. It lay against whichever corner of the cage didn't have sun. The cage was barely large enough for it to pace and turn."

Crispin looked at the ma.n.u.script piled in its open box beside his typewriter. "One time my father had us eating breakfast outside, to appreciate the tiger. This part I remember well. We didn't want to because it smelled bad. Sour and musky. But we had no choice. We sat there, pushing the food around our plates. Mama was reading her pocketbook mystery. My father was in a good mood and he picked up a few bacon strips and approached the animal. How macho, he wanted to feed it by hand. But the poor animal was afraid. It cowered in the corner. Papa got angry and started shouting at it. I'll never forget what he said. He yelled, 'What kind of king of the jungle are you?!'"

Crispin laughed heartily, then sighed. "Yes, it's funny now. But at the time my brother and sister and I were terrified by the whole thing. The sadness was only felt later. You know how it is. My father threw the bacon at the tiger and hit it in the face. This puddle of p.i.s.s formed under the animal, like some fluorescent toxic spill. I can see it like it was yesterday. The tiger cowering in its urine. Papa standing over it screaming. Mama still reading. We children averting our eyes, watching flies land on sliced mango on the fine china in front of us."

Crispin rearranged his ashtray and meerschaum pipe, moved the decanter to the left, placed the matching gla.s.s beside it. He stared at what his hands were doing, watching with absolute disinterest in their tasks. "I remember telling this story, years later, to my girlfriend, Gigi. It was odd, I hadn't remembered it for twenty years until I recounted it to her. I wept after. The first time since childhood. Gigi told me our country needs a revolution. Of course she'd say that, she was French. It took even me a long time to understand that in our country revolution isn't just parricide. It's deicide. I finally think our redemption will have to be more n.o.ble than that. Anyway, I always wanted to use my memory of that tiger for a short story, or a scene in a novel. But some things are better kept in the past." He pulled the paper from his typewriter, added it to the ma.n.u.script, and closed the box. He put the box on top of the other two. "After I wept, I remember how clear my eyes were."

Crispin looked at me. I'll never forget how he looked at me. As if I was a holy ghost. As if he realized what had to happen.

"So long," he said, with his shy smile. "Keep it bouncing."

I went home to Madison, the screaming of the living room smoke alarm, windows wide open, and an apartment as cold as the winter outside.

That was the last time I spoke with Crispin.

5.

Cristo rears his new dappled charger at the crest of the hill, the sound of his men following like the drums of war. The horse whinnies nervously. Already Cristo is missing Paloma, swearing the Americans will pay for shooting his beloved mount.

There, at the bend of the river in the distance, is the infantry of Captain Peter Murray. His old nemesis. The campfires are intermittent like distant lighthouses as soldiers pa.s.s in front of them, pitching tents, fetching water, preparing dinner. Sergeant Lupas stops his own horse beside Cristo's.

"They have no idea," Cristo says.

"Yes, sir. But what of the women and children in the village?"

Cristo is silent.

"Capitan, the men are worried. They are wondering if it would be better to surrender."

At this, Cristo lowers his voice to a rare sharpness. "You mean you you are wondering. Not them." are wondering. Not them."

"I don't need to prove my loyalty to you, Cristo."

"Don't you see, Ricardo? This This is what those Amerikanos want. They think they can create a cordon, to cow the villagers into giving us up." is what those Amerikanos want. They think they can create a cordon, to cow the villagers into giving us up."

"Our food is dwindling rapidly. Our supply lines are nonexistent. And the toll their cordon is taking ... Cristo, the villagers ... the women and children, they are starving."

"After three years, we will give up? Does any man think I don't worry for my own family? No, Ricardo. We won't play into the enemy's hands. Not after so long. Bear in mind, old friend, when we win, such worries will be over."

"They'll only send more troops, Capitan. And more after that. America is a big place."

"In your mind, Sergeant Lupas, we've already lost. Haven't we?"

"Of course not."

"Tell me. Who do you think is being hunted? Us or them?"

Lupas does not say anything. He only nods.

"Prepare the men for our charge," Cristo says, his voice low and careful. "Tell them it will be victorious or it will be our last."

-from The Enlightened The Enlightened (page 223), by Crispin Salvador (page 223), by Crispin Salvador *

I entered into fatherhood with only the best intentions. I think that in the beginning I did things right. As best a boy of seventeen could. Every teenager is both a hero and a failure. When we become adults we have to choose where in the middle we'll be. I guess I've chosen.

It wasn't always that way. I remember what made it easy to choose otherwise. Anais. Fetching her from painting cla.s.s, her belly growing beneath the smock, her clothes scented by linseed oil. Listening to her dreams of moving away to raise our child in Prague, Buenos Aires, Antananarivo. Her empathy for Vincent van Gogh, of E. E. c.u.mmings and that poem about love being gentler than rain with small hands. Together, we did the ultrasounds, the Lamaze cla.s.ses. Together, we looked through baby-name books, leafing through the pages of all the possibilities of our shared future. Together, we made love, the baby inside her every hope held firmly between us. I received the call in the middle of the night from her maid: the water was broken, Anais was being rushed to the hospital. I was there through the prolonged delivery: my hand feeding her ice chips, my little voice saying, breathe, breathe, Anais turning to me to say, finally, I love you. Just like in the movies. Then came the doctor, telling us the baby was in trouble. Then came the emergency C-section and my long paces in the waiting room. The first time I held my daughter and realized my childhood was over, I was ecstatic about it. She was worth every sacrifice. Then, the changing of the diapers, the burping, the first steps and the first words. Bringing the tiny, tiny girl to visit my grandparents-how they cooed and fawned, had their pictures taken with her in their arms. Then, after, in private, Granma, tearful, telling me: "You looked like you were playing house." Later, the struggle to keep my grade point average high enough to stay in school. And of course, the month that I wasn't there-when my grandparents sent me "to see the forest from the trees" by visiting my brother Jesu in London, where he was completing his MBA. Anais felt abandoned, or maybe she felt scared, or maybe she was just as lost as I was, and she threatened to cheat if I didn't come home. Later that summer, my too-late return home to Manila, Anais's threat made good-she'd kissed another boy.

At least, that's how I recall it. It was so long ago.

For our little family, for our daughter, for myself, I tried to win Anais back. But the betrayal had wound its way between us like barbed wire. I'd left her, and she'd left me, and we wanted to make each other regretful. She, like me, was a kid raising a child. Anais said she was sorry, and I know she meant it. What I don't know is why I couldn't forgive. I thought of which places in the house the other guy could have kissed her, and I learned to avoid those spots. I twisted inside at the thought of him holding my child. I could not force from my mind the look Anais must have given him as they embraced outside, beneath the orchids her mom grew on posts, where we had always embraced, where we were trying so hard to embrace now. What plans had been made? What promises were exchanged? But what more could Anais do but say sorry, kiss me again, rea.s.sure me?

I'm making this confession without hope for absolution.

One morning, I pretended to go crazy. Perhaps in pretending, I proved myself so. I looked into the middle distance, whispering to Anais: "Jacques Chirac is after me. Listen, can you hear him? We have to hide." I crouched behind the couch. Anais held me. She believed me. I was intoxicated by a c.o.c.ktail of success and anger and disbelief. She believed me? She wordlessly tightened her arms around me. "Beware of Jacques Chirac!" I exclaimed.

Anais grasped my face, looked me in the eye, and said calmly: "Jacques Chirac's in France." She began to cry. I did, too, for all manner of reasons.

After, my absence was gradual, until one day it was complete.

On the second New Year's Eve during the war, minutes after raising his gla.s.s of sake and pledging undying love and protection for his brother, sister-in-law, and their children, Salvador's uncle Jason disappeared. "He was there," Salvador recalled in Autoplagiarist Autoplagiarist, "and when we turned around from hugging each other in hopeful, even desperate, celebration of the new year, t.i.to Jason was gone. I was devastated. For a long time we were all mystified. Only after the war ended did we discover what had happened to him. What he experienced, and the stories he later told me, would ultimately push me to make the decisions I made as a young man."

-from the biography in progress, Crispin Salvador: Crispin Salvador: Eight Lives Lived, by Miguel Syjuco *

People are spilling out of establishments, watching the rain, enjoying the breeze in the open sections of the Greenbelt Mall. The hustle of the cafes and the bustle of the shops are almost too much to bear. Christmas carols play like torture devices. It's like I'm in one of those dreams where you go to school and everyone stares, horrified. I check my fly. I quicken my step. Some faces turn away, into their coffees, up at the light fixtures.

In the Club Coup d'Etat, it's hot and murky. The soaring hall is dark and foggy and dense with techno. The ba.s.s penetrates, charging the bones. The melodies are anthemic and ineffable. On the dance floor, light flashes red, then green, then blue, then yellow, then red all over again. Tonight is billed as Old-School Trance Night. When did trance music become old-school? The place hasn't changed, except I don't know anyone. They're all so young. They dance self-consciously, humid with movement. In the sapphire neon near the entrance a camera flashes like lightning-the spherical Albon Alcantara waddles through his rounds for his Gazette Gazette column, "Albonanza," his subjects posing like big fish just caught. In dim corners, figures do their best to melt into plush pleather couches. One couple is trying to dry-hump unnoticed, like modest dogs, in the darkness near an air-conditioning vent. A boy-faced dancer plays with glow sticks, makes simple circles in the air. I'm tempted to borrow them and show him a thing or two. How strange it is to be old enough to have fantasies that are no longer only concerned with the future. column, "Albonanza," his subjects posing like big fish just caught. In dim corners, figures do their best to melt into plush pleather couches. One couple is trying to dry-hump unnoticed, like modest dogs, in the darkness near an air-conditioning vent. A boy-faced dancer plays with glow sticks, makes simple circles in the air. I'm tempted to borrow them and show him a thing or two. How strange it is to be old enough to have fantasies that are no longer only concerned with the future.

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. A text from my old friend Gabby. How'd he know I was back? Edsa 5 brewing while you read your text messages. Protests planned this weekend against the Estregan Administration! Stay tuned. Every body will count.

Bouncers block my entrance into the VIP area. From within, an acquaintance spots me and almost leaps in place. I don't remember his name. He was much younger, from the International School while I was in college. I remember not liking him. He tells the bouncers I'm "cool." They eye me uncertainly. Inside, old friends pick me up with their hugs, slap me hard on the back, shake my hand as if I'd won something. "When did you arrive?" Mico asks, shouting over the noise. He tries to slip a pill into my mouth. I keep my lips shut tightly. I smile and shake my head and hug him in deep grat.i.tude. The gang's all here.

Tals (warmly): "Hey, cuz!?"

Mitch (looking over my shoulder at a bevy of college girls): "Pare, check out those b.i.a.t.c.hes."

Edward: "Where you been hiding, n.i.g.g.a? You were abroad? Since when?"

Angela: "Can I b.u.m a cig?"

E.V.: "So you've returned to the decline of the Roman Empire."

Pip: "O! Wa.s.sup?"

Ria: "I haven't seen you since you stopped updating your Friendster profile."

Chucho (shaking my hand vigorously): "What a guy what a guy what a guy!"

Rob (not really meaning it): "Dude, we're leaving for another party, wanna join?"

Tricia: "f.u.c.king trance, man, f.u.c.king trance."

Markus is also happy. "You came!"

"No," I shout back. "I always walk this way."

We exchange effusiveness. He puts a baggie into my pocket. I push it back in his hand, but it's already closed into a fist. "Homecoming present," he shouts. I joke that he's an addict. He replies: "Dude, you're only an addict when your supply runs out."

It's nine months since I stopped having my own supply. Five months since I last touched that bulls.h.i.t. I really don't want to go back to that vibrating wakefulness, that bubble of abrasive beauty and precarious self-confidence that should come from inside me but doesn't. How s.e.xy it was: Madison waking up on the weekend, rolling over naked, shrewdly wrapped in the thin white sheet, saying, "Hey, let's get high." How easy it was: wadding up a couple of hundred bucks and picking up the phone and calling the "car service," telling the operator that I needed a "Cadillac" for c.o.ke, a "Mercedes" for marijuana, a "Lexus" for ludes, or for the driver to bring "umbrellas," because it looks like rain, when what we really wanted were shrooms to trip on at the natural history museum. It was simpler than ordering a Domino's pizza. And we didn't have to tip.

Cocaine made life uncomplicated. We never had to cook, never got tired, never worried about personal insufficiencies. It fueled electrified sessions when I'd write twenty-page short stories in a night, overflowing with confidence that would eventually fall, but easily rise again an instant after I lifted my head from the mirror on the coffee table and wiped my nose. I was the best writer at Columbia. The best writer in New York. The best writer in the world. The best-kept secret, waiting for his time. I had a mission from G.o.d, to act on behalf of my people. Madison would joke that we use mirrors for our lines so we can watch ourselves being stupid. Then we'd do a few more hits and have excellent s.e.x that we mistook for love. When the anxieties came, as they did, with the comedown, it was as simple as pouring another drink, or popping a pill to pa.s.s out. My sleep, those times, was always deep and restorative.

I pocket Markus's baggie. I can hear Dr. Goldman, my therapist in New York, speaking from her armchair: This is the first step to failure. But such an expensive gift would be rude not to accept. I don't have to do any of it. Anyway, it's been so long. I'll just have a b.u.mp. Or two. Maybe a line. Or a couple of small ones. Maybe just half the baggie, and share the rest with my friends. If I consume it all myself, n.o.body will care. I'm home and safe and filled with the comfort of being somewhere I've already been. The ruckus of homecoming is brutally enjoyable and everyone makes me feel like I'm a champion. And all I had to do was stay away long enough.

Poor Cousin Bobby is a casualty of the slumping economy. He loses his hospital job and falls in with a gang of Pinoys with pimped Subarus. One day, Bobby is arrested and brought to court, accused of raping his date after they watched Eyes Wide Shut Eyes Wide Shut. Erning, of course, sits right behind him, to lend moral support. With his new cell phone, Erning takes surrept.i.tious photos of his cousin, to send to family back home, but he can only capture the back of Bobby's head. The bailiff comes by and threatens to confiscate it.

When the trial gets under way, the rape victim is asked by the prosecuting attorney: "Jhanelle, would you please describe here for the court the person who a.s.saulted you s.e.xually."

The rape victim, on the verge of tears, says: "Very dark-skinned. Short. Wiry black hair. Narrow eyes. Thick ears. With a broad nose with a flat bridge."

Erning jumps to his feet, shouting angrily: "Stop making fun of my cousin!"

"Don't use that tone with me," Madison had said.

"What tone?"

"That tone."

"Madison, I'm just talking."

"But why that way?"

"Sweetheart. Liebling. Madison. What way?"

"Is it the new toothpaste?"

Madison and I had been needing quality time and I'd brought her out for lunch. We had steak-of-the-forest burgers at her favorite vegan place, in Chelsea. Run by a couple of forgetful hippies, it wasn't very good, but Madison had a soft spot for failing restaurants. She said she couldn't stand to let people lose hold of their dreams. For dessert, we shared a carob brownie and held hands while walking to the museum. When we went into a bank's ATM enclosure to get cash, Madison looked up at the wall of curling flyers about people still missing. She gathered off the floor the sheets that had fallen like leaves and she blue-tacked them up again. Madison went and waited outside. She was really moody when we got to MoMA.